


Graduation

by Warp5Complex_Archivist



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-02-24
Updated: 2006-02-23
Packaged: 2018-08-15 16:45:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 46,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8064109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warp5Complex_Archivist/pseuds/Warp5Complex_Archivist
Summary: The full measure of devotion. Alternate ending of the Xindi arc. (01/08/2005)





	1. Epilog 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).

  
Author's notes: A shorter version of this story appeared under the title "Graduation Day." It's AU to the canon Xindi arc, and veers off cannon shortly after 3.15 "Harbinger". S4 explanations for Archer's outlook during S3 makes this story even less canon than when first written. Epigraphs from the works of Emily Dickinson.  
  
Beta reader: Quiz Mistress, M.S.  


* * *

Stirring martial music played as the one hundred and sixty-four cadets to be graduated slowly marched onto the exercise field and took their seats in folding chairs. This was not the regular Academy graduation, but was a commencement exercise for Tactical School.

The twelve month course of study was required for all cadets who had chosen and been accepted to the Command and Security tracks, and strongly suggested for all the branches of the Starfleet officer corps as well as non-commissioned crew. Those who did not choose its rigor, or were invited to leave, could still achieve an overall Academy graduation, but only outside Command and Security, by taking the less stringent tactical courses within the regular course of study.

The Heads of Starfleet Academy and the Tactical School were on the speaker's platform already, along with guests. This year they included the Vice President of the Terran World Government, and the Federation Ambassador of Andoria.

There was another figure on the platform, less imposing. His dress uniform reflected only a Commander's rank, and was spotted with only a few service ribbons and medals. He was obviously retired. One could tell not only because of his great age, but because the uniform issue had changed more than once and his was of an earlier eraâ€”still with a necktie and lapels, of all of the old-fashioned trappings. He was a small, thin man, with a full head of white hair, neatly trimmed. He was the only person on the platform who had been there every year since the first class of Tactical School had graduated, forty-four years earlier. He himself had not graduated from either Tactical or the overall Academyâ€”neither had been existed before he had begun his service career.

The students all knew him, though. They called him "The Commandant," although he did not hold that position at the Academy and never had. He had, at one time or another, managed to speak to them all, and despite his age, his presence at the school was as common and unremarked-on as the ozone smell of energy weapon discharge that hung around the campus or the rain in San Francisco every winter term.

Various presenters rose and spoke. The valedictorian and salutatorian both made speeches. The oratory style of the day had become achingly ornate, martial, and formal. It was too formal for the old man on the platform in his old-fashioned uniform. He thought it was rather ironic, since he had often been accused of being too formal in his youth. And stogy, and cold, and militaristic.

Finally, he was introduced. His introduction was short and to the point. Not that even that was necessary, for his name was on the lintel above the building entrance. His photograph from forty-four years before, alongside the photo of another man (that image was a bit older), was in the front hallway outside the office of the officer who was actually listed as the Commandant in the directory.

"Before we present the graduating class, Commander Reed will speak."

When he rose the Captain of Cadets bawled out "Attention!" and the combined noise of the students leaping to their feet covered some of the longer time it took him now to cover that path to the podium. The favoring of his left side was much more noticeable now than it had been when he had first crossed that stage. The parents and friends of the students in attendance did crane to see him better. Of the still living crew of the original NX-01 mission (they were loathe to call the ship by its given name these days,) Malcolm Reed was the most public figure for this yearly speech alone.

By the time he was ready and looked out at the students, it had grown very quiet. The birds and the sound of the breeze were noticeable. He began and his voice was low but very serious and strained.

"I have never been a religious man. But here is something that I know is true.

"'Greater love has no man than this: that he lay down his life for his friends.'

"Not his planet. Not his species. Not his creed. But his friends. And in the white heat of danger, the people you serve with and the people you serve are your friends. At that moment, your only friends. They will be your friends whether you 'like' them or not. And so will you be, to them.

"The only thing that can corrupt this friendshipâ€”this sacred bondâ€”is for the one to have to lay down his life for no good reason."

Here he paused. He had no notes. He did not need them. He had decided the proper thing to say forty-four years earlier, and he had seen no need to change it since then. It allowed him to really look at the students while he spoke. He hoped he could see the future in their faces, and some years, he felt that he had. They were right on the edge, most of them, between being too old to be changed and not old enough to remotely understand him.

"This school was founded to teach you to prepare for possibilities, and position yourself and your command to take the best advantage in any situation. In order to prevent the betrayal of friendship. You who are here, today, have managed to absorb those lessons. You are as well prepared as we can make you.

"One day many of you will have a command. And even if your rank and position is not that of the commander of a vessel, even if the insignia you wear does not indicate 'command,' many of you will order others. Being in command means using your resources. Your resources will include the men and women you command. And using those men and women will sometimes mean using them up.

"There is nothing in this that betrays the bonds of service. Sometime there will be no other choice. Sometime there will be no time. Sometime there will be no option.

"But if a commander has not taken advantage of every means available to him or to her; if command fails to prepare for the decisions of each mission by research, consideration, and advice of their specialists; then there is nothing to prevent needless sacrifice but sheer luck and coincidence.

"Needless sacrifice is a fundamental betrayal of friendship. There is nothing romantic or praiseworthy or valiant to the survivors of such a betrayal. There is only waste."

Reed stopped speaking. He slowly turned and returned to his seat. As he did, he had an unnerving memory of when he had turned, nearly a half century earlier, and had seen Jonathan Archer looking back at him. Finally, on that day, forty-four years ago, Archer had understood him at last.

On that day Reed had returned to his seat as an uncertain applause had begun. Then, as the graduates had been called, Jonathan Archer had spoken to him under the cover of the names being read out and said, "You never have forgiven me."

Malcolm Reed had turned to him and said, "No, sir, I never have."


	2. Part 1

> If I should die,  
> And you should liveâ€”  
> And time should gurgle onâ€”  
> And morn should beamâ€”
> 
> And noon should burnâ€”  
> As it has usual doneâ€”  
> 'Tis sweet to know that stocks will stand  
> When we with Daisies lieâ€”
> 
> That Commerce will continueâ€”  
> And Trades as briskly flyâ€”

Military training, like any training, was intended to make certain actions automatic, so that one would not have to think about how, say, to fire a weapon. You merely fired it, as well as you were able, like an extension of your arm and brain combined. The training to improve your marksmanship had a conscious, thinking process. But when you were being attacked there was no thought. You fired, and fired again. And if the weapon failed, you didn't think much about it; there was the most minute period of time in which you gauged if you would fall back or continue to attack and then you threw the useless weapon in your enemy's face, no more than if it were a stone weighing five kilos, and you continued the attack with your fists and feet and weight

On Earth, it was no longer considered appropriate to train people to blindly follow orders, to be total automatons. Even junior officers were supposed to be capable of assessing whether their orders were legal, sane, and dangerous to the crew and mission.

Lieutenant Reed had not realized how automatic his reactions had become as their mission in the Expanse went on, like an animal acting on instinct. That wasn't what he should have been.

"It's kind of like we're not really here anymore," Travis Mayweather said to him. They were sitting in decon waiting to be cleared to exit. Considering how frantic their schedules had become, it was actually relaxing to just be able to sit, warm and still, and have an excuse not to do anything. They had negotiated via a COM line for a tradeâ€”about 100 hours of some late twentieth-century music for vat of some sort of biological sludge. It was a perfect fermenting machine, needed since radiation had killed off the biological portion of the protein resequencing processors. T'Pol had it down in the Shuttle Bay, running diagnostics to make sure it wouldn't poison them all. They had had no time planetside, the music was apparently pornographic and illegal down there, and they had taken off in a hail of gunfire, with Reed and T'Pol putting emergency patches on the shuttlepod's interior walls to prevent decompression.

Reed said, "What do you meanâ€”'not here?'"

"Well, we wake up everyday. We work, eat, work more, but could you actually say what you thought about?"

"I think about planning to destroy a weapon and the means to produce it. I think about protecting a 'true' first contact team if we can determine who to speak to find out why the hell we've been forced to fight these bastards..."

"No. I mean, that's what the Enterprise's security chief thinks about. Her helmsman for two shifts a day thinks about how much of the navigational sensors he can still trust. But Malcolm and Travis don't think about anything."

"I think I see your point, but I'm not sure what 'Malcolm and Travis' can do about it." Reed cocked a wry smile. "Actually, aren't 'Malcolm and Travis' thinking right now, waiting for this goop to burn off any microbes we're tracking in?"

"I suppose we are."

"That's what I like about you, Travis. Have, ever since Starfleet training. I can sit and speak to you about somethingâ€”or nothing. When I'm with Trip we always seem to have to be doing something, or we have to be talking about 'something.' Not just 'anything,' but 'something.' Trip is a 'high maintenance' kind of friend."

Mayweather stared as Reed, a worried look on his face.

After a moment, Reed asked, "What's wrong?"

The younger man shook his head slowly. He finally asked, "Malcolm? You do remember, don't you?"

"What?"

"Malcolm. Trip is dead."

Mayweather watched as Reed's face went through a curious set of changes. He looked puzzled, as if he were not certain what the words meant. Then his eyes widened and his mouth dropped open slightly as if he were about to speak. Then a look of pain, and finally a sort of hard set moved over his features.

"Well, yes, I know that." Reed snapped, with an annoyed tone. "I'm not mad. I know that. What are you getting at, Travis?"

"Nothing. Nothing. You just soundedâ€”odd."

"Odd?" And Malcolm gave a sort of dissatisfied grunt.

Of course. Trip was dead. They had a funeral a month ago, Malcolm thought. It was sad. It was horrible. But they just had to get on with the mission as well as they could. The Captain might wander around the corridors in the middle of the night like a bloody ghost, and bite everyone's head off during the day, but he would not. He had to keep an even strain. Just keep on doing the job. For the ship. For everybody. Especially for himself.

* * *

When Major James Hayes had been assigned with his team to the Enterprise he knew it was going to be a challenge. He had not dreamed how much of it would be the challenge of interacting with a ship load of Fleeters. People who knew they were about the best Starfleet had to offer.

Before he came on board, Hayes had been given a roster of the Starfleet crew and a file of information cleared to his level of security. Captain Archer had said that he wanted the Major to have an understanding of the resources that would be available for the mission into the Expanse, including the crew. Hayes was pragmatic enough to understand that he had a definite opinion of his abilities and those of all of the MACOs, a very high opinion. And he was equally realistic to understand the pang of intimidation he felt as he read through the roster.

The Starfleet crew were generalists to a high degree due to the uncertainties of just what skills they would need in the original mission of exploration, but Hayes had not expected to see the level of cross-training and expertise. Men who had signed on as stewards who were skilled cartographers, wilderness orienteerers, or experts in geology or botany. Pilots who were engineers, computer geeks who were medical technicians, anthropologists who were demolition experts. And bizarre and eccentric skills as well: Animal trainers, divers, mountain climbers, musicians, brick layers, chess grand masters, jugglers, dancers, potters, sculptors, gardeners, habitat construction, terra forming. Every one of them was rated "proficient" in small arms; everyone of them could fight a fire, or start one; every one of them could set a broken leg, and with the help of some manuals and an interactive computer program they all could have whipped out your appendix and closed you up successfully, too.

Captain Archer's piloting skills were well known. Hell, who hadn't seen reprints of that old photo on the cover of New Life magazine, with Henry Archer in the co-pilot's seat next to a smiling eleven-year-old and the caption, reading, "Archers Hitting Their Targets?" But he hadn't realized that the Captain was a systems engineer as well. And Tucker, the third in command and Head of Engineeringâ€”he might speak like a corn-fed rube, but he appeared to be considered an expert in every engineering discipline from advanced Warp Theory to bio-deconstructors to radio communications to old-style hydraulics and internal combustion engines.

And Reed, the Weapons Officer and Head of Security. Jesus, two full-time jobs handed to the same man. What the hell had Starfleet been thinking? Reed had an Engineering degree, specializing in energy weapons and electro-magnetic theory, and he'd been a Technical Lead on the final development of the new style Phase Pistols. To top it off he was Navy; he'd served on board an Earth Defense Force frigate and had actually seen combat during the Chilean-Australian Police Action, before joining Starfleet. What else was there? Sailing, navigation, mechanical engineering, piloting impulse engine craft, optics. Wrestling? History? English Literature? He played the piano? And yes, there it was: he'd been a damn Eagle Scout!

Hayes had thrown the PADD into the nearest wall. Then he'd picked it up again. If Reed had any obvious deficiencies it was in Security, and certainly not weapons. Hayes resolved that he'd have to advocate to keep his team involved in as many actions as possible, and promote his own ability to lead in combat actions. If he didn't, these Fleeters would run right over them. The MACOs would end up sweeping floors and cleaning toilets otherwise.

Months later, as the mission into the Expanse had gone on, Hayes had been gratified by his people's abilities, but generally only on surface missions. They'd been damned sloppy in two shipboard engagements and he was mortified that he himself had been as unprepared in simply dealing with being closed up in this tin can for so long.

He'd probably brought that damned stupid dustup with Reed on himself. He never should have tweaked the little prick during those training sessions. In his own first target practice session on "the meatball" Hayes himself had spent a day before he'd pinged the damn thing half a dozen times. He had actually been amazed that Reed'd gotten four hits during the first try, but he hadn't wanted to give the stuck-up pissant the satisfaction. As for the sparring sessions, Cole and Chang had asked him beforehand if they'd be using head protection and joint guards for the newbies, and he'd waived them off. Stupid, stupid. Was he so damned insecure that he'd had to make sure his people would have the advantage on some of the techniques the Fleeters had never practiced?

But Reed was about to drive him to murder, with that smug attitude of his. Although how Hayes might manage it he didn't know. The runty swabbie was paranoid as hell. Probably had a pistol stuck up his ass for protection, and a lock-pick in a hollow tooth like friggin' James Bond. As well he should, seeing how badly some of the Enterprise's first missions had gone. What was this about almost being hung? Had that meant by the neck? With a rope? Sweet Christ, these aliens were just snakes...

Hayes had thought that was odd, as he read the briefings. The goat-ropes they'd gotten themselves into. Captures, outright abductions, botched recovery missions. There were a lot of "reasons" and hell, it was a new, really new, situation every time, but there was something about it that had made him wonder who was screwing the pooch and just getting damned lucky every time.

And then, as they'd neared their objectivesâ€”the Xindi, the weaponâ€”everything had gone into a tailspin all at once.

He'd never suspected that the Captain might be, what would you call it, "doped"? "Doped" into protecting a "nest" of the enemy to the detriment of the ship. Hayes knew he'd messed up big-time. He might have ended the mission right there, with only the excuse of "following orders."

He'd had no idea that Archer was giving away their fuel source and precious spare parts out of engineering. He berated himself after the "mutiny," and he still berated himself. He should have known something was wrong when Archer had speculated that Reed was trying to wreck the mission. What an idea! The Captain had just as quickly rejected that they investigate any possible sabotage to their weapon systems when Hayes suggested it. Why the hell hadn't he done something more, gone to Tucker, for instance? Or hell, even questioned Reed to try to determine what the hell was going on?

Hayes had no interest in having Reed's job, not with the kind of "attention" the Lieutenant got from the Captain. Archer was always bitching at Reed's caution, instead of bitching at Reed's attitude. Then Archer would do something that made you understand why Reed was cautious.

Archer sometimes acted, what? Manic? Blowing hot and cold? Hell-bent on the mission, the mission alone, and then picking up religious fanatics and letting them trot all over the ship? Letting those blue aliens wander all over? Only Reed had prevented the Andorians having free run of the place.

And then, well into Xindi space, after they'd seen the Weapon Prototype, Enterprise found yet another disabled ship and aliens with a sob story.

This time it was different. This bunch said they knew the Xindi; they had all sorts of sad stories about having been subjugated by them, forced to work in weapon factories. Fix our ship, they said, and we'll tell you all about it. Sure, it was a good idea, and even better when it was Rostov and Kelly over there with Cole and Chang and Reed's man Tanner in tow to make sure everything was going as planned. But Rostov kept calling over to Tuckerâ€”asking advice, getting guidance. And the alien Captain asked for the amazing Mr. Tucker, fussed about the security, and Archer had sent his third in command over to personally get the work done, and withdrawn the security people.

The rumor mill had later related the story. Reed had had a figurative fit on the bridge when Archer ordered that, biting his lip, grimacing, reminding Archer about some mission they'd had in the past where Tucker had been abducted. The Captain had chewed the Lieutenant a new one and put him back on his post. Tucker would be in contact, they'd be monitoring the alien ship at all times. And he was, and they did, right up until the moment the ship took off, headed straight for a patch of anomalies to get lost in.

Hayes put half his people at the transporter and half in the Shuttle Bay, ready for any boarding actions they might be able to take. Suddenly the COM traffic indicated that the enemy had ejected something before disappearing into a dense field of anomalies just after Reed sent two torpedoes climbing up its tailpipe. The Sub-Commander was on the horn to the transporter technician, positively screaming instructions to lock on to co-ordinates and beam in a cubic area of space. The tech needed a mass of a specific size or a tracking signal; the thing wouldn't work without them. She tried anyway and there'd just been that damned buzz, like a swarm of bees, and a sudden pressure differential causing everything loose to be sucked up on the platform. T'Pol's voice was a frightening sound, and Hawkins had muttered, "Listen to herâ€”just like on that zombie ship."

His people in the Shuttle Bay were ordered to stand down, and the helmsman and the Captain himself took the craft out, to pick up what the other ship had left in space. Reed stood outside with two crewmen and a stretcher, waiting for the return. The doctor had been there too, but Reed, looking like death warmed over had ordered him to wait in sickbay. "We won't be in any rush." And Hayes then realized what had been jettisoned and what the Captain was bringing back.

It was a mess all right. The Captain acted as hard and dead and cold as any human could be imagined. He out-Vulcaned the Vulcan, who, rumor had it, spent several days breaking things: dinnerware, PADDS, elevator controls, her chair on the bridge.

Chang had come to him a week after the funeral. He'd gotten friendly with Tanner, and Tanner said that Reed was more screwed up than anyone in charge of the Armory ought to be. Forgetful, dazed, frantic in a sort of buttoned-down-about-to-turn-into-a-crazed-maniac way. Hayes couldn't have all three of them going pear-shaped on him at once, and Reed was the only one he had a good excuse to speak to.

Hayes found Reed in the Armory, projects started and unfinished around him. Simulations were running without anyone watching them, reports scattered aroundâ€”the PADD screens blinking on standby, two phase rifles disassembled on a work bench, an uneaten sandwich lying to one side right on the deck plating. Reed leaned against the worktable, running his hands through his hair and staring into the air.

At a distance, Hayes coughed to attract Reed's attention. Jesus, the man looked like hell. Had he slept in the last week? Had he eaten? Hayes started asking about routine scheduling, and Reed made a visible effort to give Hayes his attention, as if he was happy for the distraction, if nothing else.

Finally Hayes came right out with, "Is there anything else we need to discuss, sir?"

Reed looked damned puzzled, as if he'd mislaid something, and said, "I don't believe so, Major."

"I don't mean to overstepâ€”"

"Then don't," Reed snapped.

"It's my obligation to. I failed earlier when I didn't question theâ€”state of the Captain when I was following his orders."

"What is wrong with Captain Archer now?" Reed asked, his voice ramping up about half an octave.

"Nothing." And to Reed's puzzled look, "But what if there was? How would the mission continue? The Sub-Commander has never been in command of a starship, and hasn't even been familiar with ship operations before her assignment to the Enterprise."

"Why, she'd rely on myself, and the rest of the junior officers."

There was a long silence, which, gratifyingly, Reed did not break. Good, Hayes thought, maybe you realize what I'm here for.

Hayes tried to pretend he was talking to one of his own people in a similar fix. "It's difficult to focus, sometimes, for a while, when you lose a crewmate, sir."

Reed looked as if he were going to explode, and then suddenly sorted of "deflated." He went back to servicing the rifle he had on the work table, and muttered, "Major, you needn't worry about my mental health. I'm just having a bit of troubleâ€”concentrating. I need to put certain things out of my mind for a while."

Hayes jumped at it. Here was something he might be able to help withâ€”if Reed would let him.

"There's an exercise, we've been taught, sir, to sort of break aâ€”recurring thought." Hayes didn't want too say "panic attack," or "compulsion."

Surprisingly Reed looked attentive again, "This just isn't some sort of biofeedback thing, is it?"

"No, it's not a relaxation exercise or anything like that. It just helps break your concentration on a thought you need to drop for a while. After a while it gets automatic."

He showed Reed how to do it, an old trick. It was practically inducing a physical tic, along with a mental command to "Stop." Hayes had used this one before, when he was first being trainedâ€”passing his thumb over the tips of his fingers, each in turnâ€”a short, sharp tap.

Reed was ready to grasp at anything. He practiced it with Hayes, visibly relaxing as they went over it.

"I'll try it," Reed said. "I, we, need to get over mental clutter. There's too much at stake here. Too many people are counting on us. Too many people have died for this." And Reed went through the exercise again. "Thank you, Major." And he actually said it as if he was grateful.

A few days later he asked Chang what Tanner said about the Lieutenant. Maybe a little better, and at least Reed's autopilot was working again, and not taking him around in circles. Hayes was satisfied. He did need to tell the Doctor about it. There was only so much you could do with mental gymnastics.

But the next day they approached the Hive World. And the pooch was screwed again.

Hayes never had a chance to talk with Doctor Phlox.

* * *

At the time, Reed had not realized that he had somehow stopped even trying to assess what was happening to their mission and their commander. He did his job. And their situation had only become more desperate, insane, and fatal after that point.

It didn't even seem that strange, after the mission to the Xindi Hive World, to wake up in a haze of pain killers, vaguely hearing Phlox protesting and Captain Archer's voice, rough and strained.

"He has already told us the locations of the egg chamber and the central food store. I must let him rest now."

"I need him in the Armory, now! With Fuller dead, and the Lieutenant unconscious, Tanner doesn't know enough to safely design a warhead that will disperse the virus. Phlox, we have to wake him up now. I need him sharp."

"Captain, 'sharp' is hardly possible, and mobile is an impossibility under any circumstance. I've had to reattach the lower gastro-intestinal tract as well as repair damaged nerve and blood vessels. Even with medication the chance of blood clots makes the Lieutenant susceptible to vascular blockages and tissue damage. I can't..."

"You don't have a choice! We don't have a choice. Degra's not going to help us; we can't prevent them from launching the weapon unless we convince them that we can hit them just as hard. Don't tell me you won't allow a patient to be sacrificed because I know you better than that, Phlox. Everyone on this ship is expendable, and no one knows it better than you."

"Whaâ€”, what do you meâ€”"

"Earth is going to be cracked like a walnut unless we stop this weapon launch. You're in this with us, Phlox. The Denobulan Medical Association would find personal logs from this missionâ€”interesting. You won't have any more options than we do if we don't stop the Xindi."

Reed didn't make sense of much of it, and later forgot most of it. Just an argument, just the threatsâ€”threats to people, a threat to Earth.â€”All swimming by in deep water, drowning him.

Coming to the surface, Reed was strapped into an inclined stretcher, his still useless left arm tied up across his chest. Doctor Phlox was on one side of him, Tanner on the other, holding up a PADD. It hurt every time he took a breath.

"Sir?" Tanner was saying, "Sir? Doctor Phlox says the virus is susceptible to heat. If we have a containment vessel in the warhead, here? Will that work? I think we can use titanium panels, held in a mild steel frame work. If we use shaped charges here, and here, will the thermal reaction be pushed outward?"

He was bucking the current. "Check the database...Trip'll help. On cluster bombs, twentieth century. Get Commander Tuckerâ€”to help you.â€”shape's allâ€”wrong. He'll understand."

And then he was under the surface again. Clawing at the eddies. Was he alone in the water? Had anyone else fallen in? Where was Trip? Gasping for air again. The touch of a hypo at his neck.

Reed heard Phlox say, "This pattern of blast, it should give maximum dispersal for the spheres holding the virus."

Tanner was speaking to him, "Lieutenant, will that yield be adequate to split open the spheres?"

Clarity and pain and a horrid feeling that something was broken inside him.

"Yes. But, Tanner, move the charges to the nodes. That's right, the intersections of the frame work."

"And we can use one of the standard torpedoes if it's fitted into this capsule? With the secondary charge?

"Yes, that will work. It ought to work. Steep trajectory. Nguyen should plot it."

Haze over his eyes. He gasped and struggled to stay afloat.

He was back in sickbay, supported on his side. There was an oxygen tube taped near his upper lip. A barely audible hiss. He tried, and could weakly clench his left hand.

"Lieutenant Reed," said Phlox, only mildly happy. Something bad must have happened. "You're with us again."

"Tannerâ€”" like a nail being pulled out of the wood where it was buried. Phlox used a pair of tongs and set an ice chip to Reed's lips and he took it greedily. He tried again, "Did Tannerâ€”complete the design? Did Captain Archer have itâ€”?"

"Yes," said the doctor. "The launch was successful. We're in orbit around a major population center of Reptilian and Humanoid Xindi. The Captain is in communication with the council."

Reed considered. He hadn't been drowning. He had thought he had fallen, into the sea. That was wrong. Trip hadn't fallen either. He had forgotten.

Reed looked up and Phlox was still there. At the glance the doctor bent down toward his patient.

"It all really happened, didn't it?"

"Yes. You were captured, and then rescued. We've beenâ€”"

"No. I know," Reed interrupted. "Trip is dead, isn't he?"

Phlox nodded.

When he checked on Reed a few minutes later, the Lieutenant was not really awake. But he was agitated, clenching his hands over and over again. Phlox gave the man a sedative and then checked the drainage tubes again. Humans were beginning to exhaust him. But if their luck held out, the Enterprise might succeed yet.

Our luck, he thought. Denobulans were not normally an ironic people. I have to get away from this. I am so tired of it all. I wish I were home.


	3. Part 2

> He fought like those Who've nought to loseâ€”  
> Bestowed Himself to Balls  
> As One who for a further Life  
> Had not a further Useâ€”  
> His Comrades, shifted like the Flakes  
> When Gusts reverse the Snowâ€”  
> But Heâ€”was left alive Because  
> Of Greediness to dieâ€”

They had accomplished their mission. And most of them did make it back, out of the Expanse. At least more than half, if you included the six crewmembers blinded. And T'Pol had completely withdrawn into some sort of morose ill-tempered caricature of a Vulcan. And Major Hayes still would sometimes still burst into a horrifying, child-like terror when he saw Reed in a corridor, one of the still-healthy MACOs having to comfort the poor bastard and return him to the galley where he could be kept occupied.

On their return they docked at Jupiter Station and immediately off-loaded the worst of the casualties. Their messages and reports had preceded them, and the Captain, who had become even more uncommunative over time, was kept in meetings with Admirals Forrest, Williams, and Leonard, and with the Terran and Colony political leaders. Reed had sunk into an automatic acceptance of extraordinary circumstances for so long that he, like many of the crew, was unprepared for the reactions of their peers operating "normally."

They were all scheduled for physicals, in order of precedence. They had all been exposed to radiation, microbes, and chemical compounds unknown to previous space flight. They had been reduced to eating whatever whole foods they could find or trade for on the return trip, along with, for the last month, either the vegetative, citrus-like pudding or the somewhat gravy-like pudding that had been all that Chef had been able to coax out of the failing support systems. Reed was scheduled to see a Starfleet doctor two days after their arrival.

The doctor examining him, a human doctor, quite a change, had received Phlox's records, but Reed noticed how the man started when he examined the scars on Reed's torso. "And the dermal regenerator was unable to remove the scar tissue?" "Doctor Phlox said the tissue surrounding each incision had been chemically damaged in such a way that only a removal of the surrounding skin and muscle and replacement with grafts would help. Enterprise didn't have the facilities to do that." The doctor was scanning while a young medical aide manipulated the data and put it on a screen. On the read-out Reed could see the line of the healed bone tissue across all of his attached ribs on the left, the smoky haze that surrounded the scarred incision sites.

The doctor noted, "The incisions are veryâ€”neat." "They drugged each of us. Something that paralyzed voluntary muscle function." "Notâ€”a general anesthetic?" "No." He had lost consciousness just after they had opened his chest cavity. His last memory was of an Insectoid foot-hand clamped on his shoulder while another levered back one of his ribs. When he had woken, sewn back together, hanging suspended by his ankles in that dark, humid compartment, he had heard Major Hayes whimpering somewhere behind him. Crewman Marino had been there too; they just hadn't realized it "And here," Reed noticed to his surprise that the doctor's hand shook when he traced the injury, not on the display, but on his skin itself, "this is where they broke the ribs to remove the left lung?"

Reed made a conscious effort not to defend himself by knocking the doctor across the room. He didn't like being touched right now; that was one good thing about Phlox, at least. Phlox didn't try to touch you, and if he had to he used those big clunky gray gloves that always made Reed think about veterinarians. Reed had managed it, but Phlox had been hard to get used to, that jarring sing-song cheerful voice, even when things had gone to hell in a handbasket - like some demented Hobbit, whistling on his way to Modor. Reed hoped he could get used to a human doctor again. "Yes." "And the medial lobe of the liver, here?" "Yes, they left about half of it. I've not had any problems - the liver's a big organ. Doctor Phlox didn't think it would be a problem." "Turn please. And this incision - your left kidney?" "I suppose they thought the organs must be redundant. We don't think they were trying to kill us, just then." Then the man was silent while he ran a scanner. The doctor cleared his throat. "There's a substantial amount of relative displacement of your remaining organs. You favor your left side and there's a definite twist you've taken to your gait to compensate. How much pain do you have when walking or running?" "Not much." "Even with the bone spurs? Please sit back down on the examination table." The doctor had gone pale. Reed felt very uncomfortable. He tried to make a joke. "Doctor, you should see the other fellow." But the doctor didn't laugh. There was a loud beeping from the monitoring equipment. The aide had stopped manipulating the data and was standing with his hands on the keyboard, pressing multiple keys at once. His eyes were screwed shut and he was shaking. Reed looked at the aide; he seemed to be no more than a boy. The doctor took the young man by the shoulder and guided him toward the door. "Go out and take a walk," said the doctor in a low voice. Then he came back and continued the examination.

"I'm sorry," Reed said.

"I'm sorry, too," said the doctor.

What is wrong with these people? Reed thought. Strictly speaking there was no other "fellow." The Insectoids that had captured him along with Hayes and Merino were all hive warriors. After they had covered the escape of T'Pol and the other crew from sciences, the three of them had backed themselves into a corner and fired until they had no ammunition left, no energy in the backpacks, and their attackers were pulling back the massed piles of their dead in order to reach them. And "you should see the other fellow" was an impossibility now. As far that they could be sure there were no Xindi Insectoids anymore. The Hive World was still inhabited, though. All the Insectoid warriors and their ships had been recalled. When the Hive had been infected with the Loquek virus, the telepathic call to return to home had been overpowering. Now the ships floated in orbit, or rusted on the surface as the random steps of the inhabitants led them to ceaselessly search for their lost city. Starfleet Medical had wanted to put Reed and quite a few other people on medical leave with corrective surgery and therapies to start immediately. He had protested and asked for a delay. There was too much to do, debriefings to attend, repair orders to initiate. Archer had backed him up. Archer got his way. Everyone seemed to be afraid of Archer, and to a lesser extent, of all of them.

* * *

As the full impact of their actions sank in, it was decided to have the debriefings conducted on Jupiter Station, and delay their return to Earth. Reed's debriefing was like waking from a dream. A very bad dream.

It was in the de-briefing that Reed had been answering questions on that incident, and he'd suddenly realized that the officers questioning him had gone surprisingly quiet and that their faces looked ashy.

Reed stopped speaking. What was wrong? Had he said something wrong?

"Lieutenant," Commander Chard had finally spoken again, "Do you mean that Captain Archer rejected the suggestion that a robotic probe could have performed the reconnaissance?"

"Yes, sir," Reed had said a bit uneasily. "The informant indicated that the area would be empty during that period of the planet's climatic 'winter'."

"But you and Sub-Commander T'Pol advised against it?"

"Yes, sir. The science sensors indicated some biosigns, although the readings were not very clear. Captain Archer tended to discount some sensor readings. By that time, the repairs were often incomplete and the accuracy was suspect."

"Because the Engineering staff was so depleted?"

"Lieutenant Hess and Ensign Rostov did the best they could with the limited supplies at hand, sir."

Captain Bromhead had not asked him many questions. She had been one of his instructors when he had first gone through Starfleet training. He couldn't imagine that he had ever been afraid of her; now she reminded him of his Aunt Sherry. Now she spoke up. "Lieutenant Reed. Are you aware that Captain Archer termed the reconnaissance of the Xindi Hive a success?"

"Yes, ma'am." Where was all this going, he had thought at the time, as he watched them turning to look and each other, baffled and angry. "We determined the location of the brood chambers."

"But it was completely by luck that you and Major Hayes and the dead crewman were recovered. If you had not been that information would have died with you."

He was silent.

"Lieutenant," Bromhead continued. "Did you realize that in the early days of your mission into the Expanse, Captain Archer had made frequent notations into the record that you were overly cautious in your advisory capacity?"

It didn't surprise him in the least. "No, ma'am, I didn't know that," he said.

"And that such notations ceased after a certain time period, despite the fact that your own reports don't show much of a change in your advisements? Did you ever tell Captain Archer that the mission into the Xindi Hive was an acceptable risk?"

No, I never told Archer that, Reed thought. That's what I told Trip about the phase cannons and bypassing the EPS grid. That's when he got angry with me and accused me of risking the lives of the crew. And that's when we talked about it and worked together to get the cannons installed. And later they brought me a birthday cakeâ€”the first one anyone had given me in over fifteen years.

"No, ma'am, I didn't tell the Captain that." They were waiting for something. "Perhaps, I did not emphasize my own - feelings about the advisability of certain courses of action in the same manner, although I told the Captain what my suggested first course of action would be. I had - grown used to the Captain'sâ€”command style over time."

What had he done? He thought. What was wrong?

"You said that Captain Archer mistrusted the sensor readings. But you and Sub-Commander T'Pol did not? Why was that?"

"I think we both recognized the reliability of the sensors based on the type of conditions. It was just one more factor be had to consider. We felt that disregarding them comple - without some additional factors depending on the specific conditions wasn'tâ€”the best course of action."

"But the Captain did disregard them completely? Under what circumstances did he disregard the sensors and your advice?"

Whenever it kept him from getting what he wanted immediately, Reed thought. "I'm not sure I can say, ma'am."

Why were they staring at him like that? Commander Chard said, "Lieutenant, would you like to take a break and resume the debriefing later?"

"No, sir."

Bromhead continued, "So, Engineering was operating with limited capabilities by then?"

"We all were, ma'am."

"Was the Enterprise was suffering from not being able to count on Commander Tucker's expertise?"

He didn't answer for a moment. He didn't know where the questioning was going. Of course they weren't doing as well without Tucker, of course they weren't. After Charles Tucker had been killed in an impulsive, ill-planned attempt to make friends with dubious aliens the Captain had only clapped eyes on a few hours before, they had all been suffering in one way or another.

"Yes, ma'am. We'd had system failures that we couldn't fix. Trip - Commander Tucker was very good at using technology we found or traded for interface with our own systems. He was the best engineer I've ever worked alongside.

"Also, the Commander had always helped morale on the Enterprise. Sub-Commander T'Pol, she is second in command, but she's not human. If people felt they needed to speak to someone about something not strictly pertaining to the mission - you don't want to bother the Captain and the Sub-Commander might not understand. So people would talk to Commander Tucker. And he listensâ€”would listen and help you.

"And Captain Archer and he were friends. Things changed a bit as time went on, and the mission into the Expanse put both of them in very stressful positions, but you could still tell that the Captain appreciated just knowing that he was there, that he could talk toâ€”Commander Tucker if he needed to -"

Bromhead interrupted him. "It appears that quite a few people were harmed by Commander Tucker's absence."

"Ma'am?"

Bromhead looked to Captain Hicks and Captain Evans. Captain Hicks said, "We'll resume the debriefing after a meal. 1330?"

Before Reed could stand Captain Bromhead had risen and hurried to him. She leaned down, keeping him from rising, and produced a handkerchief and held it out.

"Reed," she said in a low voice. "You're weeping."

He started guiltily and wiped at his face. He now realized that his cheeks and collar were wet. What was wrong with him?

"Let's get out of here, son," she said, and they left the room together.

For a while they just walked down the corridors in the Station, silently. She's letting me get hold of myself, Reed thought. I'm falling apart.

* * *

Bromhead took him by a circuitous route to one of the messes on the station. She told him to get them "something hot, anything with caffeine," and when he brought a pot of tea, hot water, and two cups to the table in a far corner, Reed saw the older woman had brought two dishes for them.

"It's pudding. Bread pudding. They actually make it out of, well, bread, here."

He shook his head, thinking of sweet desserts, and meal times, and Trip positively scraping a plate with his fork, trying to get the last bits off without actually picking it up and licking it clean. When he looked up, Bromhead was watching him.

"Commander Tucker was your friend."

"A lot of them were. Fuller, Bastlin, Cutler..."

"But there are friends and friends. When I lost a school mate when I was young, I kept thinking I saw him. I saw him everywhere."

Reed sat still. He had thought he must have been going crazy. Ever since they had gotten "home" he couldn't stop thinking about Trip.

"I didn'tâ€”until this week. But when I'm in the station, there are so many people. I keepâ€”I thought I saw him. I followed someone until he turned a corner and I saw his face."

"I don't think we're the only ones that has ever happened to. It's hard to believe that someone is really gone."

"Oh, Trip is dead," Reed said bitterly. "Travis and I put the lid on his coffin."

He started to shake, "We did it twice. We closed his body up in a coffin twice."

Bromhead didn't try to stop him, but instead let him sit and tremble for some little while. He finally mastered himself. He found her pressing the cup of tea into his hand and he automatically drank.

"Reed," she said. "We're going to be asking you about that. About the clone. Do you want to tell me anything about it now, off the record?"

He swallowed hard. "I'm not sure what you mean. Shouldn't you only talk about the debriefing items officially?"

"Officially? Well, 'official' is not going to be this conversation I'm having with you, Reed. I'm a Captain. The rarified birds up the line may get my summaries and my recommendations, but they may not want to realize that we sowed this crop when we didn't bring the NX-01 back directly after you dropped that Kingon off.

"The Vulcan morality and total policy of non-interference isn't human, and I don't think we can live with it, 'as is.' But it's obvious now that we should have tried to get more out of the message even if we ignored the manner they used when they delivered it to us."

"You mean, making trouble for ourselves?"

She nodded. "I will tell you now. Archer may have done the best he could have. No one is going to fault him, officially, because he got the results. He, all of you, saved our sorry asses and gave us some time to get ourselves in order. But the instruction, to 'Do anything; even if it's wrong' appears to have been taken a bit too literally. Serves us right for loving Henry Archer's memory too much.

"But your own reports are very clear. You had limited options, and genocide was one of them. An example that made the rest of the Xindi stop and listen long enough for all the pieces to be examined on one table."

Reed interrupted, "So that makes it all right and just, Captain? 'Limited' options? It felt like we had no options at all."

"Reed," she said, "after what the Xindi did and what they were trying to do, we can't put blame on anyone's head. The feelings are too raw, the passion is too high. It's impossible to be understanding about an enemy that was about to destroy our home planet. An enemy so willing to see us as 'alien' that they would do, would do what happened to you and Major Hayes."

Reed felt anger boiling up in him. "We're still alive. Why does everyone get so outraged by this and forget about all those who are dead? I've got no interest in serving as the poster boy in support of wiping out an entire species."

He had shouted. The mess had gone silent, but when he looked around, most of the faces were pointedly turned away.

"Reed," Bromhead said quietly, "That Xindi planet, they're all still alive too. Or are you making the case that there are worse things that a quick brutal death?"

Reed thought, there is nothing worse than that, nothing at all. Quick and brutal. As brutal as a blow to the base of the skull, as quick as the time it takes to cycle an airlock, and leave a body in space between you and your pursuers. He had to stop thinking about this. He had to stop, or he would go mad.

"Ma'am. Why are you telling me this?"

She looked at him grimly. And then said, "Because Malcolm, I remember you, and I've been reading your reports for the last three years. I've seen serious men and women make a determination that they should have seen every bad event in some cosmic crystal ball and prevented them all from happening. It's bad enough when it's the commanding officer that thinks that. It's downright tragic when he doesn't and one or more of his subordinates decides to do it for him. I want you to know, now, that if Archer isn't going to be censured for any of this, none of his officers will be either."

Reed stared into the tabletop between them. He wasn't sure he knew what he thought of that.

"I don't know what exactly to say about Simâ€”the clone. The Captain didn't consult with me before he - had been 'made.' Captain Archer and Doctor Phlox are the only ones who know it all, I think. Perhaps the Sub-Commander."

"And that is why I am asking you. Now. Off the record. Doctor Phlox and Sub-Commander T'Pol are no longer on this Station, and soon, neither one of them is going to be within the confines of this solar system."

Reed was shocked. "Why?" He asked. "What's happened?" He had not seen either one of them that day. Even as much a T'Pol had changed in the past few months, he had never supposed that she wouldn't have said goodbye.

"The Vulcans requested T'Pol's immediate recall. Captain Archer and Starfleet protested that she had resigned her commission, but they asked to speak to her. Shortly after that conversation, she left Enterprise, resigned her position, which was not as a member of Starfleet, so we had very little control. She has already left detailed reports, but sometimes they say surprisingly little.

"Phlox, as you recall, was also not officially a member of Starfleet. His association was actually with the Vulcan Medical Exchange. He apparently had been sending messages to both the Vulcans and members of his own - family - on your way back. He's resigned from both his association with Starfleet and the Medical Exchange. He left Jupiter Station a few hours ago. There was some sort of 'scene' at immigration control and Archer was there within a few minutes."

"And?"

"And the Doctor departed," Bromhead finished dryly. "Archer is too big right now to fit into any category, we're all treating him like a force of nature, but that's going to change. It's just not going to change much, not right away.

"So you see, all we have are the official logs and reports. You've seen those. I thought you might know more about this 'creature' the Doctor made. Or perhaps even Tucker himself might have known and told you.

"Was there ever any request by either the Doctor or the Captain that the clone might have to be," she paused, as if hunting for the right way to say something, "restrained?"

"No, never!" Reed said immediately. "There was an incident with the shuttlepodâ€”that's in the recordâ€”but the Captain told us it was all an error, a misunderstanding."

"What did the Commander say about his clone?"

Reed wasn't sure what he ought to say. He had never seriously considered a hidden meaning to anything Trip had said about it. The implication of Bromhead's words made him wonder all over again.

"I'm not sure what Trip thought about it. Sometimes he even made bad jokes about it, as if it didn't matter to him one way or another.

You have to remember, he never saw Sim alive. He never knew anything about it until after the fact. Trip didn't have any say in the matter.

"But sometimes it seemed as if it bothered and worried him a great deal, that Sim had died during the operation. Captain Archer told us all that that wasn't supposed to happen; it was a complication. But Trip signed his 'medical will' over to me afterwards. He never really told me in any detail how he wanted me to act. He just thought I'd do the right thing. He kept saying, 'I'm not that important. The mission is, but I'm not.' "

"Did he ever say anything else?"

"Once we were talking about the casualties. I said something about sometimes having no option but to sacrifice lives. It really made him angry. He said that when we shipped out on this mission, anyone wearing a uniform knew that, but otherwise sacrifice was just murder.

"I asked him what he meant. He said somethingâ€”I thought he meant that the Xindi were murderers. That the firefights we were having with them weren't somehow battle casualties because we had to come and defend ourselvesâ€”we were threatened. Trip said, 'If someone has no choice but to sacrifice his life because he's been threatened, then it's no different than if he were tied down and executed.'"

Reed stopped. He suddenly thought about Trip's hands. How they were tied tight together behind his back when they retrieved his body. How when he had cut the restraints off, held Tucker's dead hands in his own and then cut the bands off. They had been tight against the skin. The restraint had protected them from damage in the vacuum. A band about an inch wide around each of his wrists.

"And now you're not sure," prompted Bromhead.

Reed shook his head. "I'm not sure about anything now." And he held himself very tight to keep from shaking again.

When he looked up again, she was pushing a bowl toward him.

He tried to wave off the desert, but she said softly, "They used to claim that a hot tea and four sugars was a cure for 'shell shock,' but you don't strike me as someone who'd take tea with sugar, Lieutenant. Try the pud."

It was actually very good.

Finally, Reed spoke, "Do you think that's what's wrong with me? With us?"

"Shell shock?" she said, softly. "Oh, that's rather old fashioned. PTSD? That's out of style too. I don't know what they might call it now, but no, 'I' think you're perfectlyâ€”normal. It's the situation that's crazy."

He looked at her. "Ma'am?"

"It's called grief, Reed. You're all suddenly coming to the surface, and you've got the bends. You've lived a year completely isolated in enemy territory. Home, the normal, safe world, this one is coming too fast. I've seen the logs; you've had no time at all, until now, to grieve."

"It was a war, Ma'am." And he stopped, not sure what else to say.

"Yes. Yes, it was. 'It's not like home,' all the letters say, from all the wars we've ever known. But now you are home. And you, and we, are safe for the moment. Now it's time to decompress, and not everyone is going to do it in the same way.

"And you. The Enterprise. No one else can really judge you. That's what these debriefings are already showing us. We'll pick apart the Xindi mission and your exploration before the attack from now until we're so sick of it that we'll try to forget it entirely. If we're smart we'll glean what we can to improve things. If not, we'll just do it all over again."

Reed tried to mull this over in his head. "What's Starfleet's official position, Ma'am?"

"We'll try harder next time. And next time starts right now."

* * *

The immediate job was to repair the ship and re-fit. From time to time there were de-briefings and Captain Archer coming and going from the ship. Archer was apologetic when he asked if Reed would appreciate an officer being brought in to help arrange duty rosters and general operations, so that Reed could focus on the weapon systems. He said he would happy to make Reed acting executive officer, but wanted to give him the choice. Reed was glad to remain as he was; he had no need to arrange for strangers coming on and off the Enterprise. An extremely competent systems engineer, Commander Du Page, was brought in for the engine work, and Reed found himself hating her with all his heart, but even that hate was surreal and exhausting. When Rostov told him that Du Page was responsible, humble, and technically savvy, Reed let the hate go.

They had been insulated from the initial euphoria on Earth, greeting their return, and so they were also insulated from stunned shock, grief over the dead, and politicians and Starfleet alternating blaming each other or denying that they had anything at all to be ashamed of. Archer did make a general announcement and have a public viewing of taped vids from World government and the Colonies showing congratulations. The one that Reed truly enjoyed seeing was from Andoria, with a personal message saluting their victory from General Shran, who called them something that was awkwardly translated as "weapon siblings of the same odor," which made Hoshi laugh out loud on the bridge. It was the first time in months that Reed had seen her laugh at all.

He continued to see Commander Tucker. Never on the ship; always on the station. A face in half light. Someone leaving a room. Laughter heard from down a corridor. He understood that he wasn't going crazy. Phlox had said it didn't necessarily mean that. And Bromhead had said it was just grief. You got over it eventually. But Reed sometimes found if hard not to follow these ghosts, grab them by the arm, demand to know why they were still alive when Tucker was dead.

One day while working he was particularly distracted; couldn't focus at all, and suddenly there was blood all over the spanner he had in his hand. When he went to sickbay, the doctor they had been assigned temporarily told him that he had merely torn open a callous. After repairing the wound, the commander curiously examined Reed's hand.

"These are awfully thick callouses on your left hand. Are they from a particular control panel or a weapon grip?" Reed looked at them. He wasn't sure what they were. He didn't have similar pads on his right hand.

* * *

After four months the Earth seemed to have decided that Starfleet had its full support. And Starfleet said that the Enterprise, her Captain, and crew had its full support. It just didn't quite feel that way.

They returned the ship to Earth orbit for an official visit, and to reassign replacement crew. And that was when Reed received word that he was being promoted to Lieutenant Commander. And re-assigned to Starfleet Weapons and Shipboard Systems Research and Development. He would not ship out on the Enterprise to continue exploratory missions. He was needed to head a project to qualify and produce workable force field generators, specifically to be used in shipboard security and possible weapon systems. He stood blinking at his computer reading it. The message had come immediately on the heels of one from Starfleet Medical, re-classifying him to "limited duty due to medical impairment."

It was as if he'd been struck in the face. Before Enterprise he'd been the weapons officer on the Smedley Darlington Butler. He'd done research and development before, but ship board as part of active assignments. They couldn't do this to him.

He'd worked himself up into a rolling boil by the time he reached Archer's workroom and thumbed the COM. He was caught up short by the sound of female weeping in the background when Archer answered.

Reed stammered out, "I'm sorry, sir, it's not important. I'll come back later."

Archer had immediately appeared at the door and grabbed his arm, pulling him inside.

Ensign Sato was sunk in a chair, bitterly weeping. The Captain's dog trotted around her feet, looking anxious.

"Malcolm," said Archer, "I'm glad you've come. So you got the same message?"

When Archer saw his puzzled expression he continued, "The medical report. About the Loquek virus." Archer had crossed over to where Hoshi sat and placed his hands on her shoulders.

"I, I don't know, sir, but I've been re-assigned off the Enterprise. Light duty, Captain. What about the virus?"

It certainly took some of the starch out of his outrage. He could hardly demand that Archer explain if he had had anything to do his re-assignment. Not with Hoshi crying her eyes out right here. But she seemed to snap out of her own sorrow when she heard him.

"Oh Malcolm," she said, "I'm so sorry."

"But what about you, Hoshi? You're not disabledâ€”are you?"

And her face crinkled up and she started crying again.

"It's the virus," said Archer, looking guilty. "I imagine your report has the same information. There's still too much of that stuff latched on to our DNA. The reports advise none of us to contemplate having childrenâ€”there's no telling what sort of defects and mutations it will cause."

Oh. Oh, that was why she was upset. Reed hardly knew what to do. He uncomfortably approached her and she impulsively jumped up and hugged him.

"Oh, Malcolm," she said, blinking back tears, "here I am moaning and crying. It's nothing. I'm so sorry. Surely they aren't going to make you leave Starfleet? They can't!"

And Reed found himself calmly and quietly telling them about the re-assignment. Archer rushed to his own computer and there was a copy of the order. He'd just not read it yet. And immediately below that was an order that Archer was being assigned to the Warp Seven Development Program. He, too, was leaving Enterprise.

And they had all stood and starred at each other.

Later, Reed and Sato had left. Archer had held him back for a moment, said how much he regretted the re-assignment, the medical re-classification, the fact that he'd been robbed of the chance of parenthood. How sorry he was for Reed and Sato.

Of all the things Jonathan Archer had to be sorry about, this wasn't it. But Reed found he could not say that, not after the emotional wringing they'd just had.

Instead he said, "I'm fine, sir. I just feel sorry for Hoshi. It's different for a woman."

But as he walked back to his station he found that all he could think about was Trip telling him that they couldn't die because he was confident there would be a Charles Tucker the Fourth.


	4. Part 3

> It dropped so lowâ€”in my Regardâ€”  
> I heard it hit the Groundâ€”  
> And go to pieces on the Stones  
> At bottom of my Mindâ€”
> 
> Yet blamed the Fate that flung itâ€”less  
> Than I denounced Myself,  
> For entertaining Plated Wares  
> Upon my Silver Shelfâ€”

Stuart Reed had been startled when near strangers started mentioning his son. It had started within a few months after Malcolm had been re-assigned to the new ship, the Enterprise. Reed was surprised at how many people were following the activities of that ill-conceived flyboy's dream. He found people asking if he was related to the Weapons Officer on the Enterprise. Because he'd been stationed at the naval base in Kota Kinabalu, and Enterprise's Reed had gone to school there, it said so in the news cast.

Then there was that disaster in the Gulf of Mexico. If only people had spent more time and money on the Defense Forcesâ€”the Earth Defense Forces, well, that never would have happened! Or wouldn't have taken that many lives. Malcolm had sent a written message. Very short. Insultingly short, really.

You'll have heard that the Enterprise is leaving to counter the threat to Earth. You can trust us to do everything we can. The Enterprise will be contacting Earth as the situation allows.

Mary had been quite upset, not that she let it show; good girl.

Their neighbors and total strangers, busybodies one and all, had appeared. The local Imam called and asked them to come as "honored guests" to a service for the Godspeed and safe return of the Enterprise. To fob the man off, Reed had told him that they were Anglicans. Then when the local Vicar called, there was nothing for it but to attend a much larger and more public service for the same thing. Fools. Idiots. The embarrassment to sit and be prayed over by this weak-minded charlatan; prayed over as "members of the community" with a son on the Enterprise, whose safe return was in the hands of God. What rubbish! More like in the hands of those dreamers at Starfleet!

But Stuart Reed had felt a childish, warm tug of relief when those first reports came back. When the casualty lists, good Lord, nearly half of the poor beggars, had not included Malcolm among the dead. Weakness.

Mary would have been crushed. Not that Malcolm had had the decency to avoid Starfleet from the beginning, to stay, as he ought to have, with the Navy. Running away from his responsibilities. A disgrace. A disappointment. At least he hadn't gone and gotten himself killed.

So now, the news Stuart Reed had read early that morning, broken by some disreputable rag, and slavishly re-reported on the other papers, well, he really couldn't believe it. When Mary woke up, he'd have to warn her.

But it was quite early when his wife came in holding a news PADD flimsy sheet. He sat up, a look both sour and worried on his face as he recognized the download to be from that news organizationâ€”sensational stories that only morons would read. Except he knew what was in it today, because all the reputable morning papers had commented on the late night addition of The Subspace Echo. Stuart hadn't realized that Mary was up yet. One of her busybody friends must have just called; he hadn't heard it.

"You've seen this?" she said, her voice shaking.

"Mary, you know it's all lies. Gross, disgusting exaggeration. He called Madeline. He said he was fine when they got back into the system."

"But you've seen this?"

"No, I read the report in the Times about that moronic Yank politician blabbering about this in order to wave a bloody shirtâ€”"

She flinched.

"â€”and try to make hay out of, out of, this."

Mary rose up on her toes, making the most of her slight stature, and shook the page at him; shouted at him.

"Hay? Hay? Look at it! Look at it! No one is saying it isn't true. That is what happened to our son!"

She threw the PADD at him and it flopped loosely at his feet, like something he'd pulled out of the sea on a line. The page rolled flat and displayed a hellish "artist's conception" of three men being tortured by creatures like giant beetles. The paper had used service photos and manipulated them into the illustration.

Reed was momentarily stunned in spite of his foreknowledge. The report in the Times said the same thing, but mere words were not as shocking. He stooped and folded the PADD to hide the image.

He wouldn't, couldn't take it seriously. It was a lie. Malcolm wasn't hurt. This reassignment, this demotion, it was just more example of his son's failure to face his responsibilities. It was leaving the Navy all over again. The only thing wrong with Malcolm was his weak, contrary, dumb insolence. His refusal to do was what right and proper. If he had really wanted a proper career, he would have done well in the Navy. But no, it was starshine and moondust for his frivolous son.

The picture looked so real. The three men were screaming, pinned down on examining tables.

Stuart Reed thumbed the "clear" and erased the page entirely.

He was about to remind Mary that she couldn't believe everything just because it was in print, when she stole the march on him and began to speak. Her voice was nothing more or less than that of her father, Captain Mathias Whitsun, reading some hapless crewman the holy writ of his order.

Stuart remembered that voice. He'd wanted the Captain's daughter, a biddable, small, bird-like creature, and he had been willing to beard that Whitsun lion in its den to get her. Only a few times in their forty-year marriage had she used that voice to him. It had not ever failed to shake him.

"Stuart, I shall see Malcolm. I want him to know that he is welcome here in our home. His home."

"He's never even been here; he left home before I retiredâ€”"

"Stuart! I want him to know." Nothing she said was a command, but it was clear that everything she asked, she expected to happen. "I have to see him and know that he is all right. I want you to call him now and ask him to come see us. Madeline can come and visit, too."

"I won't beg him," Stuart said, but it sounded undeniably weak.

"If he does not come here, I will go to California." Nothing about coming back. Mary turned and went to the door. She stopped before exiting and spoke without looking at him. "I always gave you the freest hand with Malcolm. I always let you raise him as you saw fit. Even when he was a child; even that to-do about the other boy. But I can't have anything less than this. You'll have to welcome him here, now."

"What nonsense," he said with false bravado. "Not welcome him? What an idea!"

But she had already left the room.

Malcolm was surprised and suspicious when his father called.

"Malcolm, your mother wants you to visit. If you can." The pause was unusual, as if his father were trying to see if someone was listening to him or not.

A visit was hardly what he wanted, but he had reported to his new duty station at Starfleet, which turned out to be additional testing, evaluation, and some forced leave prior to starting the real work at Weapons Research. Leaving the Enterprise had been hard. He had spent his last night on board walking through the passages, standing in the armory, checking the inventory once more, and then, finally, he had gone to Engineering.

Hess had been on Gamma shift. And after asking him if there was anything he needed, she had, thankfully, left him alone. He had listened to the hum of the warpcore on standby. He stood below the engine and looked up to the display station. Remembering Trip standing there, on their very first mission out from Jupiter Station. Reed had smiled with Mayweather to see Trip rubbing at a spot on the casing with the sleeve of his uniform. And there, against that bulkhead, that was where Trip had been thrown, putting him into a coma. Lying immobile in sickbay for weeks, not knowing when Malcolm visited him, not hearing foolish, heartfelt wishes that it would all turn out well. He was an idiot. He had thought those wishes had come true; wrong again, Lieutenant Reed. And here, the little alcove where Trip had his work table. This was where he had left the job he'd been working on, and was shuttled to the alien spacecraft to relieve Rostov. Reed had heard his voice over the COM on the Bridge, "I'll be there, Captain," and Reed had thought, this is a terrible thing to do. What is the Captain thinking?

Reed felt homeless. It had felt so good to have a home, and now he'd been exiled from it. And he had too much spare time now. Time to recover, time to rest, they told him. Recover from what? Rest from what? Reed wandered around San Francisco and would find himself, not in places he had enjoyed there, but instead, in places Trip had told him had been his favorites.

He might as well visit Kota Baharu, see his mother and Madeline. He hadn't wanted to worry them, but he could imagine what Mother might have thought when that stupid senator had released details of one of the debriefings. He dreaded seeing his father. But the phone call had surprised him. He wondered if it were some sort of trick.

Madeline met her brother at the port facilities in George Town and they rode the maglev to their parent's retirement house on the east coast. He asked her how her husband was, the man they wouldn't be talking about at their parents. Father had never approved of the marriage and preferred not to hear about it. She told Malcolm that William was fine, and even that they were considering a child, soon. Malcolm smiled wanly and wished them luck.

She had been concerned to see Malcolm so thin and drawn, but she didn't say anything about it. It wouldn't do to say anything about it; one didn't comment on other people's looks, bad or good. At least not in the family, except for Father's occasional, caustic comments that came from out of nowhere. She and Malcolm had been taught that it just wasn't done.

It was late when they arrived, and she let them both in with a key. Madeline knew the arrangements; she would take the small guest room, and there was a daybed in Father's den for Malcolm.

While they were getting ready to sleep, their mother came in.

"I'm glad you're home," she said, and for a moment Malcolm was afraid that she would cry. But she walked over to him briskly, took his hands in hers, and offered him her cheek, which he dutifully kissed. She surprised him by simply staying there, close to him for a moment.

He asked softly, "Are you all right, Mother?"

"I'm fine," she replied. Then she released him and said good night.

Malcolm lay in the narrow day bed, in a room that smelled of dust and soap and a faint whiff of chemical. It smelled of his Father, actually. In a faint light from the street he could make out display cases on the walls. His Father had kept his collection in retirement. Hundreds of insects carefully killed and arranged and pinned to cards under glass. All around him.

He considered. Mother was fine. He was fine, and so was his sister. The Reeds were always fine.

The next morning he turned from where he was making tea at the counter when his Father came into breakfast. Stood still and straight and said, "Good morning, Father."

He got a very small grunt, a nod in his general direction, and then his father extended his right hand. Malcolm took a step and they shook hands. "Glad you could visit," Father said, glancing over Malcolm's shoulder to where Mary Reed was frying breakfast. Ah, well, of course, this was all for his mother, Malcolm thought.

The four of them ate rather quietly, as they always had. It was almost as if fifteen years had merely been peeled away. Reed answered some simple questions. What was the new posting? (A grunt from his father. Contempt? Indigestion?) Had he found an apartment? And then his mother and Madeline proceeded to carry the conversation, as they usually had done. It was nothing like the meals he remembered on the Enterprise, at least before the Expanse. Reed could imagine that the next few days would be difficult in this small house. Trip's family had never been like this; he told Malcolm about loud, happy conversations at meal times, sitting and talking well after all the food was gone. Trip wasn't at those tables anymore.

His father wanted to go to the marina, take the Sabah Girl out. A grand day out for the whole family. Not what Malcolm would have chosen, but there it was. On the train ride down to the seaside Malcolm found himself trying to mentally prepare. He hadn't been on water in ages, now. It was odd, he considered, that his fears of the water had seemed to grow as he had grown, not lessen. He remembered wonderful days when he had been very small, with his mother's brother, Archie, going out in a boat, teaching him how to sail. That had been when Father had been stationed in the Indian Ocean, and the rest of them had lived in Portsmouth. Then they had moved, with Father, to Malaysia, when he had been transferred. And as the years passed, Malcolm had become more expert with handling a boat, but increasingly fearful of the road it sailed on, as Father had continued to teach him. Or berate him, as the case might have been.

A dark road, an airless road, like space. But not like space. There was no crushing pressure in a vacuum, no streams of water that would press in and fill your lungs. But just as deadly, breathless, empty. Gasping for breath and there was nothing there. Thank God it had been the blow that killed Trip. He hadn't fought for air where there was none. Don't think about it.

Malcolm looked up and realized that Father was observing him with a scowl on his face, staring down toward Malcolm's hands in his lap. Was something wrong? Had he spilled breakfast on himself? No, no he was fine. Everything was fine and was going to be fine.

When they reached the marina, the wind off the Gulf of Thailand was gusting, though still warm. Out past the breakwater you could see the waves coming in and the spray. Mother asked if it wasn't too rough to go out. There were very few small craft on the sea.

Father made a variety of gruff noises, and answered, "You and Maddy may want to stay here, walk in the park and visit. But this is just a breeze. Any sailor worth mentioning could still manage the Sabah Girl in this weather." And he cast an eye at Malcolm.

"It looks fine," the younger Reed replied in an even tone, looking straight back into the contemptuous curl of his Father's lip.

There were thin, sleek life vests in the locker. His father tossed him one, saying, "You'd better put this on."

Malcolm took off his jacket, stowed it, and put the vest on over his thin shirt. "Only a fool would tempt the Old Man," he said. And then, of course, Father put on a vest as well, as if it had been his plan from the start. Why do we do this? Malcolm thought as they took the boat out.

The waves were quite choppy, especially for a fifteen-foot sailing vessel. But Sabah Girl had been theirs for years, Malcolm's first familiarity on the trip, unlike the new house. He had spent so much time in her, trying to perfect his actions, trying to avoid the sharp razor of his father's tongue, the threatening looks. He had done it so well that they had seldom spoken to each other at all in the last few years of their excursions, in his adolescence.

The sea was rough enough that they both had to keep alert, had to pay close attention. Attention to the boat, the wind, the waves, to each other and their actions. It made it easier to try to forget the deadly dark water racing past beneath them.

Malcolm felt a wild, reckless exhilaration. Malcolm had forgotten nothing, from the boat itself, to his Father's mannerisms at the tiller. This was where he had beat his Father into silence, where his Father had run out of all but the most trivial of complaints. Too bad he hadn't been able to force himself to make that mastery last.

It was one thing to take the boat out a few times in a week, where you controlled every action, and there was no time for idle thought. It was something else entirely to serve on a ship, an idler gear in a drive train, where there was too much time, and the constant ever-present sea, pressing in on him. Crawling up the hull of the ship, always there, always plotting, never sleeping. While he had been in the service and stationed on ship he had been constantly on high alert, never relaxing. And the Navy doctors could not imagine what kept him from sleep, ruined his meals, slowly carved the meat from his bones. But they noticed that he did better on shore, kept him in assignments that took him further and further away from the sea. When his period of obligation was up he'd already decided where he needed to go, where he should have gone in the first placeâ€”Starfleet.

They had been out for several hours when his father took them back in. There were the last few nauseating meters as they passed the breakwater. They were both soaked from the spray.

Mother and Madeline met them up on the dock after they secured the Sabah Girl. Malcolm had been about to put his jacket on over his dripping, salty shirt, but his mother stopped him, and Father as well.

"Now, Malcolm you know you'll break out from the salt water. Stuart, you're soaked to the skin as well. Here, I have some dry jumpers." She bent over her large handbag, pulling out fresh clothing she'd packed.

Malcolm had half turned and stripped out of the clinging wet pullover. He rose up straight, heard the sharp strangled scream, and froze for a short, sharp instant, standing with his wet shirt in front of him, still over and around his forearms. Of course. He was a fool.

Maddy was silent, wide eyed, one hand pulled up in front of her mouth. Father looked rather struck, not mute, but almost imbecilic, standing there shirtless. His mouth was silently working. Disbelief, disgust, grief? Malcolm wasn't sure what the look on Father's face was; he'd never seen it before. Poor Mother, standing so small, like a child. She'd pulled the clean shirt up, almost covering her face. He could just see her eyes, squinted up, with tears starting to run out and over flow.

Malcolm found himself looking silently down at the dock, as he pulled the wet shirt off. He momentarily held the shirt in front of his chest, covering the longest of the scars, the one that started up at his left collarbone, and dove down to a hand's breadth above his waist. He never should have come here.

He felt more than saw his Father come up and give him the dry clothing, taking the wet one out of his hand.

"Here, Malcolm," he heard. He turned his back to put on the clean shirt, and heard one last, stabbing gasp. He supposed his back looked nearly as bad as his front. When he turned around Father almost reached out, but cancelled the motion. Mother was walking unsteadily away from them, up the dock, on Madeline's arm.

They rode the train back to their home, and Stuart Reed sat silently with this only son on one side of him and his wife on the other. He had walked with Malcolm toward the station, a few yards behind Mary and Madeline. He had nothing to say, and yet, had seldom been so sure he ought to say something. He felt as if he had been snatched up in the mouth of some huge, bruising creature, and shaken.

Mary had gotten herself under control by the time they were on the platform. None of them had said anything. Stuart found himself staring at his son. Yes, he was limping, just slightly. He had not noticed it before. When Malcolm had slipped that jacket, that damned jacket, with that blasted ship's registry number on it, back on, Stuart could see the jerk and catch as he pulled his left shoulder into it. Malcolm had worn a shirt about a size too big for him. It hid the terrible concavity on his left side, below his ribs and above the hip. Stuart Reed had not noticed anything before.

Why couldn't the boy have stayed on Earth? Why couldn't someone else have gone and done those things? Why did he not even really know this man by his side? He found, as if against his will, that he was thinking hard about those questions. But he did not say anything, because they never had said anything.

As they sat on the train, Stuart Reed became aware, first, that Malcolm was shifting in his seat, a bitter, annoyed look coming over his thin face. Too thin, he thought. Then Reed realized that there was a man and woman, sitting across and down from them, staring at them. Talking about them, by God. No, talking about his son.

"I recognize his face, from the pictures. He's the one who fired the weapons; not much to look at," the man said in Melayu. Fewer people used it now, switching to Standard; this fellow was about Reed's own age. Reed had slowly picked up Bahasa Melayu over the years, but he knew that Malcolm and Madeline were fluent. That cringing great bastard; what the hell was he going on about?

"It's disgusting that real people, Humans, could do such things. And incompetent as well, the crewâ€”so many died. But you see, he's European. Most of Starfleet is European. They're cold people." Reed felt outrage swelling in him. He hadn't heard such racist nonsense since he was a child. Was the man some sort of Eugenist, or something? Reed briefly noticed that other passengers were looking away, edging further from the fool.

Don't argue with a fool in public, Stuart Reed thought. That's what he had been taught, what he had taught his children. But this was outrageous. Why didn't Malcolm do something, stand up to this ass? He looked to his family. Mary had noticed nothing, alone, awash in grief. Madeline was turning red with anger. Malcolm had gone paler than usual, tight lipped.

"He's from around here. That must be his family. Surly looking group. How could parents manage to raise a son like that?"

Malcolm had held back when he had first overheard the conversation. He knew how controversial the mission had been to many back on Earth. And besides, his parents wouldn't understand the man, anyway. But at those last comments he began to rise to his feet. He was stunned on standing to find that Father had leaped up and crossed the crowded compartment in a stride.

"I hear a dog barking on this train," Stuart Reed said loudly in Melayu. The man was clearly surprised and rose to his own feet, but leaned back as Reed leaned forward. Reed was taller by scant centimeters, but the other man was brawnier by far.

Reed shouted into the stranger's face, "You could have died in Cuba or Venezuela or Florida. My son risked his life to save you, you ignorant coward! He could have stayed here, on Earth. But he followed his Captain and sacrificed himself while we stayed here! Safe! He went because he was strong to do the job! Could you do the same? How dare you judge him?"

Malcolm prepared to fend this brute off if he decided to fight Father, but the man was utterly cowed. "Father," Malcolm cautioned. He was too surprised to think of anything else to say.

The older Reed took a step back and pointed to the end of the car. "You go to another car, away from a surly European. I don't like you looking at my son, or the rest of my family."

With a rage and a certain weak feeling of relief Reed watched the man take his wife by the hand and quickly leave. He hardly noticed approving nods from several other passengers. He sat down and felt a deep shame that he had started to tremble. He had never in his life had to actually fight anyone, personally, in earnest. And he suddenly remembered all those Starfleet press releases and how the dry, factual summaries had sounded like descriptions of battle engagements, mere history, now, on Earth. Malcolm had had to fight in earnest many, many times.

To hide his discomfort and relief and fear, Stuart Reed made several grumpy, disgusted noises in his throat. He then nodded approvingly to Maddy, who was making a roundabout explanation to her frantic mother about what had just happened. He looked to Malcolm who was peering at him with blank surprise, and scowled. What was he staring at? Good Lord, the boy was so damned exasperating.

A very, very old man came up to them, with two teenagers. He bowed his head down to Malcolm and said, "Thank you for saving my grandchildren," in a Melayu so strongly accented in Cantonese as to make it nearly unintelligible. The children also said "thank you" in Standard. Before they reached their stop several other people in the compartment had come forward, saying about the same thing, some reaching out and taking Malcolm's hand. A woman with a baby, a uniformed private in the Sarawak Boarder Scouts, a man in a business suit.

When they were out on their street, walking, Stuart Reed said, "What a fuss" to the air, as if he wanted to prove some sentiment to himself, and was having a difficulty doing it.

No one particularly felt like eating when they arrived home, and Madeline said she and Malcolm would take care of the later evening meal. Stuart and Malcolm needed to clean up and Mary excused herself and lay down in their bedroom.

Mary Reed felt horrible, guilty, ashamed. Don't cry, she thought. Captain Whitsun's daughter does not cry. When she had first seen Malcolm the night before she had been so relieved. He was thin and looked so much older. But he didn't look disabled. He hadn't looked as if he had gone through hell. And it had been easy to do what she had always done with her son. She was polite. She was reserved. She did not pry.

She had done a terrible job as a mother. She had let Stuart have his way in raising Malcolm once they'd been reunited at the Kota Kinabalu posting. A boy needs a strong father, she had thought, remembering the closeness of her own father and Archie. But Stuart was not her father, and had fathered Malcolm as if to prove some point. As if to throw back some smothering influence, some weakness that Stuart feared in himself. And such a good job had been done that they could not manage to offer Malcolm any comfort, and he seemed incapable of asking for any due him from them.

She had watched with dismay as Stuart had systematically tried to root out sentimentality and childishness fromâ€”a child. Watched frivolity and happiness hidden away. Not completely. There had been that outbreak of joy when Malcolm had joined the scouts. His scoutmaster had been a very kind, competent man, she remembered. But even that joy had been tempered. What was the boy's name? Teck, she thought. She'd forgotten the family's name.

What a cruel thing to do to Malcolm. To do to both of them. She still remembered how they would come into the kitchen together, from some rough outdoor play; side by side, sometimes with their arms over each other's shoulders. Teck, a head taller, broader, dark with a wide face; Malcolm, thin and pale when he wasn't sun burnt.

"Oh, look," she'd say, "it's the twins." And the room would ring with the peal of the boys' laughter.

She nearly started to cry again, but stopped herself. There was something she could do, at least. She went to her dresser and reached under clothing to get the book she had found when they had packed to move here to Kota Baharu. Too little, too late. But something none the less.

Malcolm was in the kitchen, getting tea, when his mother found him.

"I have something for you," she said, and handed him a book. A real book, a slim, faded green volume. The faded words on the spine said, Poems of Courage and Friendship, edited by E. March.

"Goodness," he said, "I thought I'd lost this, years ago, in Sabah." He opened to the frontpiece and quietly read the handwriting at the top of the page, "For Sherry. Your brother does not seem to love these half so much as you. Uncle Colin. 2085." Then he traced a finger under the writing lower down, "Enjoy these as I did, Aunt Sherry. September 2nd, 2132."

Malcolm smiled when he looked up at his mother, sitting at the table. He had loved these poems, first reading them in his aunts' house on visits. They had seemed so true, so right to him as a boy, and as heroic as the stories his aunts told. Stories about their beloved Uncle Colin; told about how hard it had been for some during the Eugenics War.

"Wherever did you find it?" Malcolm asked.

In the back of Stuart's clothes closet, she thought. "I found it when we moved," she replied. "I should have sent it to you then." She remembered how heartsick Malcolm had been when he'd "lost" the book, and she'd had an uneasy feeling at the time, after all that manipulation on Stuart's part about the boy. She's still been shocked to find the book, hidden away, years later. She'd supposed that Stuart hadn't destroyed it out of some vague feeling for his sister and their uncle. She'd not questioned her husband. She just put the book among her own things.

Malcolm was carefully turning the pages. All the favorites you'd expect, Kipling, Mahathir, Mansfield. That one old chestnut "Captain, My Captiain," by Whitman. Peterson's "The Man from Snowy River." Soaringly romantic, he recognized now, with the jaundiced eye of an adult. But still...

Ah, here was Woodberry, the poem about the boys riding. Where are the friends that I knew in my Maying, In the days of my youth, in the first of my roaming? We were dear; we were leal; O, far we went straying; Now never a heart to my heart comes homing!â€”Goodness, he hadn't remembered just howâ€”physicalâ€”it was. And further down: When the breath of life with a throb turns human, And a lad's heart is to a lad's heart set? Ever, forever, lover and roverâ€”They shall cling, nor each from other shall part, Till the reign of the stars in the heavens be over, And life is dust in each faithful heart!

Malcolm felt a sudden strike in his chest. And life is dust. Dust in the furnace of an alien sun. At the bottom of Woodberry's "Comrades," Malcolm saw a light penciled word in a hand that suddenly fired some synapse left dormant for years.

"BRILLIANT," it read.

He said to his mother, "Do you remember Yong Teck Lee? The boy I met in Scouting, first year? We used to read these poems and vow to do great adventurous things. Talk about sailing the South China Sea, looking for pirates to fight and captives to free. I remember him leaving Scouts. We said we'd write to each other, but he never answered my letters. Well, we were just children."

Malcolm looked to his mother, but her smile back was sad and uneasy. "Do you remember him?" He said.

"Yes," she answered, "I remember him." She thought how easy it would have been for Stuart to filter COM messages.

And strings of thought seemed to catch in Malcolm's mind. The pirates in the Expanse boarding their ship. The slave Captain Archer had thrust into his arms for safekeeping, while he fought her pimp in the marketplace. Trip rebuffing his feeble attempts to help after the death of his sister. The pain of that. It had been so very familiar.

"Mother," Malcolm said cautiously, "Teck's parents sent him to stay with other relatives, in Singapore, I think. Do you remember if somethingâ€”upset them?"

"I don't remember," she said lightly. Malcolm knew she was lying.

"Wasn't there some sort of business with a sleepover? Not getting permission, or something like that? I can't seem to remember very clearly, but it was upsetting. I remember Father coming to pick me up in the middle of the night." He did not say that he now remembered his Father had been so very angry, but had not spoken at all. And sometime later, or was it sometime before? Father had told him not to play or visit with Teck.

There was a long, long pause. And the longer it went on, the more sure Malcolm was that something had happened. Something he wasn't remembering, or perhaps, that he had never known.

And then, Mother started to speak, very carefully.

"Your father was worried that your friendship with Teck was too serious. That you would spend all your time with him, and neglect other things. He wanted you to spend less time with him, that's all. I'm afraid Stuart may have gone overboard. It wasn't fair to make you give up a friend."

"Was I doing poorly in school? I don't member that happening when I was eleven, twelve, whatever it was."

"No."

Malcolm remembered lying on his stomach on his bed, chin on his hands. Teck lying next to him, talking about great adventures they'd have when they were older. They'd find pirates to fight; there were still occasional reports of criminals preying on small ships. They'd go to Australia and learn to ride, and have adventures in the Bush; or maybe go to Canada. He remembered Father coming in, and the stern disapproving look on his face.

A sudden, sick feeling.

Malcolm sat down with this mother at the table. "What did Father think was going on? There was something?"

"No, there was nothing. You were just children. You two just played like normal children, just like a pack of, of, puppies," she said. "Absolutely nothing happened."

And the surety of her words made it all the more obvious.

"Mother," he asked again, "what did Father think was going on?"

Her mouth opened and closed several times. Then she said, "I don't know. But he was worried that Teck would take advantage of you. He was bigger than you, and more, more mature."

"Physically," he said.

"Yes."

"Father drove away my only real childhood friend because he thought two eleven-year-olds were experimenting sexually?"

She merely nodded.

"And he told Teck's parents too? Did they believe him?"

"They didn't, at first. I certainly never did."

Something else fell into place. "It wasn't a sleepover. I ran off to visit him in the middle of the night."

"Yes," she said, "Stuart said he didn't want him to visit, or you to see him. His parents called when they found the two of you talking out in their garden. I think that may have made them change their minds."

Malcolm was almost blank with rage. He tried very hard to remember any hint of something improper and he couldn't, not for his life. And he was sickened to think that now, this might be the connotation in which his dimmed memories of Teck would lie. But those memories were faded. That friendship had lost its importance. It could happen again.

"Mother," he said sternly, "why are you telling me this? And I know I asked you just now, but why?"

She watched her son, taut as a bow, worrying with his hand. Those strangers on the train, the ones who had thanked him, they had shown him more kindness than the family had. She had not followed Stuart's outburst well, but Maddy's explanation told her more about her husband than she had realized. But Stuart would never act on that crust of conscience, she felt sure. It was up to her. She watched her son, her beaten-down boy.

"Because Malcolm, there are things people ought to do at certain times in their lives. We kept you from doing those things. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. And if anything has gone wrong because of that, you must know it is our fault, not yours." She reached out and took his hands in hers, the one hand still jerking and fluttering against her palm; he let her hold them. "I'm so sorry, Malcolm."

He didn't know what to do. He shook his head. "Not your fault," he said.

"But, it is. Mine and Stuart's. I think Stuart did it out of ignorance; I sometimes think he doesn't understand anything in any terms except leader and follower. Aggression and weakness. And Stuart is so thoughtless, so sure that whatever he has decided is right. But I know better. Knew better."

Malcolm didn't know what to do. It had been a surprising, horrifying day. Father's outburst on the train had been a shock. It was a pity I've had to be crippled, nearly killed, lost everything important to me, Malcolm thought, to have finally heard the things Father said. And now this.

He finally said aloud, "I understand, Mother. But please, don't whip yourself over this. But don't expect things to change. It wasn't as if I had made a vow not to ever see you again, but I never expected Father's call the other day. It wasn't as if I hated you. But I'm not very good at this." He disengaged his hands from his mother's.

"I know," she said, "neither are we."

Malcolm helped Madeline fix supper. She very quietly asked him a few things, important things about him and about the Expanse. Had it really been as bad as the government said; a weapon that could have destroyed the planet? Yes. Had there been any other way? Perhaps not by that time. He had lost friends, close ones? Yes. Was he very ill? No, not ill at all, just hurt, and no, they didn't think it would get worse.

They had often done this when they were younger. Spoken quietly over some chore, fallen silent if their parents came into the room. It had been at the kitchen sink that Madeline had once said, "When I go to Singapore during school break with my friends, I'm going to see a doctor. I found a fertility clinic and someone compatible who can't have a baby. When it's this early, it's not dangerous for a transplant. I want you to know in case something goes wrong." Nothing went wrong, and he'd never revealed her secret.

So it was here that he offered up something to her. "I want you to know that I won't be having any children, so I think it's a fine thing that you and Will are planning a family. You may want to consider that it's important that Father and Mother get used to the idea that they won't be able to continue ignoring Will's existence."

There was a long silence, as Madeline continued to chop vegetables. Finally she asked, "Is this because of what the Xindi did to you?"

"No. I picked up a sort of virus. The doctors think it would be dangerousâ€”to the childâ€”if I were ever to father children. I've already taken care of it."

Supper was mostly silent, although this was a very good meal. Madeline had made his favorite for pudding: thick slices of pineapple, broiled with a cane sugar and coconut topping. When they were finishing, Malcolm said as much.

Mother looked at him with a startled expression. "I had no idea you liked it so much. It always made your mouth and throat swell up. That's why I hardly ever made it."

"Well, I'm taking something now so it won't give me a reaction. I've always enjoyed pineapple."

They all stared at him again. But at least it wasn't with horror.

As Madeline started to gather the dishes, their Father said abruptly, "We've not drunk to your promotion. Come into the den while Maddy and Mary clean up."

Malcolm silently nodded and followed his Father. When he had come out of the junior officer's program when he had served in the Navy, his parents had visited him, and he and his father had shared a nearly silent and extremely uncomfortable drink in a pub. So this was a new experience to be invited into this room, and watch his Father pour out two hefty shots of a decent single malt.

"Lieutenant Commander Reed," his Father said.

Malcolm briefly considered setting his own drink back down, leaving the room, and then leaving the house entirely. He thought there was a late flight that would put him back in San Francisco before six hours had passed.

But in only that very moment he realized the complete futility of it. And sipped his scotch instead. It would change nothing. His Father's opinion did not matter to him. Not now.

This was the man who'd treated him like clay, like a thing with no feelings, to be molded into some preset image. The man who'd been dismissive and enraged when Malcolm Reed had declared that he had interests of his own and had followed them. And now, he knew, the man who had either imagined a precocious and inappropriate relationship between two children, or, much worse, had been so jealous of his own child's friendship that he had lied to another family to destroy it.

Malcolm considered that his Father might not even recognize the evil wrong he'd done nearly twenty years before. Just as he appeared to unable to recognize the hypocrisy he was now showing after the contempt he'd shown for Malcolm's choice eight years earlier to leave the Navy.

And Stuart Reed was also the man who had, at least tried to teach his son a few things. The importance of hard work, an admiration of intellect. How to tack into the wind. And he supposed, that his Father thought he still loved his children. Loved them like possessions. William was not good enough for Madeline, and by choosing him she'd somehow cheapened herself. And as they had seen on the train, a Reed was not to be judged, not by any common civilian. There was no apology, or rather, this was it.

The regard he had craved: it was not important. Pointless. And pointless to stay. Tomorrow he'd tell them he had to get back to his new posting and leave sometime before dinner. There was no rest or recovery here.

As they drank, Malcolm asked if any of the insect specimens in the display cases were recent, and his father proudly showed off a few. At one point Stuart Reed turned to his son and said, "You don't mind sleeping in here? Mary suggested I take down the cases, put them away. I told her it was nonsense."

"No," said the younger Reed, looking at the dead and still tropical insects. "I don't mind them at all. I think it's my favorite room in the house."

He was as bereft as the man in the Woodberry poem whose childhood friends were all dead. And my heartâ€”all the night it is crying, crying, In the bosoms of dead lads darling-dear. Teck was just a small, memory. He couldn't really remember how much he might have loved and missed Teck. He tried a few times to really clearly remember what Teck had looked like and sounded like. But whenever he tried, he kept picturing someone else entirely.


	5. Part 4

> Heart! We will forget him!  
> You and Iâ€”tonight!  
> You may forget the warmth he gaveâ€”  
> I will forget the light!
> 
> When you have done, pray tell me  
> That I may straight begin!  
> Haste! lest while you're lagging  
> I remember him!

At first they hadn't called it anything. It was just a series of incidents: a missing cargo ship, mysterious radio signals, wreckage in space. Strange incidents that happened outside of the area where the Enterprise had stumbled into the alien minefield. Starships were sent to investigate. Listening posts were established. People and craft went missing. But before very long they were calling it the Romulan War.

To those back on Earth and in the Colony Worlds it had a certain antiseptic aspect to it, like watching chess pieces on a board. It was soon a sideways dance of moves and counter-moves, the establishment of buffer zones and the caching of nuclear weapons. Weapons used at great distances, outside the range of energy weapons and projected where the accuracy of photonic torpedoes was inadequate.

Ah, Reed thought, but nukes. Well, they're still very big bangs, aren't they? He could appreciate the tactical movements, serving a strategy to keep the Romulans from claiming areas for themselves, to keep them from sowing lanes of shipping and travel with mines. But watching from a distance was all he could do. It ate at him, as did other things.

Reed was glad to get a message from Mayweather saying that he would be able to take a week's leave on Earth while the Enterprise was being serviced at Jupiter Station. The Enterprise was returning after its first mission, largely uneventful, into the War Zone. Travis said that he wanted to visit Malcolm before flying down to Arizona, where the helmsman planned to meet with an outfitter and explore Kartchner Caverns, near Benson.

It was over two years since the ship's refit following the Xindi War, with Captain Greenberg in command. Almost six years after the NX-01 had first shipped out. About three years since Reed had nearly died on the Xindi Hive World. Three years, two months, thirteen days since Reed had watched the sensors monitoring the alien ship go active and take off with Commander Tucker on board. Three years, two months, thirteen days since Archer's initial refusal to allow Reed to fire torpedoes into the alien ship's engines at close range before it picked up enough speed to make it difficult to safely disable.

Three years, two months, thirteen days, at the beginning of beta shift, when Archer had walked past Reed without speaking, his face set in a terrible stare. And Reed had gone into the shuttle bay where Mayweather knelt next to Trip's body and watched the Captain's retreating back. Mayweather kneeling next to Trip's dead body where Archer had left it laying face down on the deck plating.

* * *

Mayweather met Reed at the gymnasium on the Starfleet campus. Malcolm had asked him, "Do you still play handball?" when they made the arrangement. "This time we can play in a real court." It was good to see Malcolm, Travis thought, even though he didn't really know what to say. But then Travis didn't always feel you had to have a long conversation with someone to enjoy their company.

They didn't speak while they played. Mayweather had never played on a regulation court and needed to pay attention. And he soon realized that Reed hardly had enough breath to play, let alone talk while he did it. Reed still played a hard game. He had on the Enterprise, even with arguments about which seams in the deck plating signified the boundaries. But after losing the first set, Travis knew he would win the rest. Once they had to stop play completelyâ€”Malcolm had seemed about to collapse, breathing hard, trying to get enough air. Then they started again and Malcolm harassed him each time he tried to set a slower pace, or break between sets. Once Malcolm would have beaten him handily, most sets, but not now.

"That's two out of three, Malcolm," Mayweather said. "We're going to have to give up the court soon."

"One more," Reed gasped, red-faced, sweating.

"Come on, Malcolm. You know full gravity is tough on me."

Reed gave him a snorting grimace. "Unfair to an old man; no chanceâ€”of a comeback."

The twist in Reed's walk was noticeable as they went to the showers. Travis was surprised, but didn't say anything when he saw that Reed hadn't had the skin grafts necessary to get rid of the scars the Xindi surgery had left on him. You didn't see scars like that much anymore. Travis saw two other men in the locker room start, and then turn away.

They were going to stop by Reed's apartment, before going to supper. Mayweather had a room at the Starfleet BOQ that night and the next. On the short walk to Reed's apartment, they chatted superficially about Captain Greenbergâ€”how she was different than and similar to Captain Archer. Reed wanted to know how careful she wasâ€”did she pay attention to security issuesâ€”did she have a good grasp of tactics? Reed fidgeted. Maybe he was in pain, Travis thought. Reed still fiddled with his hand occasionally, the way he had started to back in the Expanse. He looked a good ten or twelve years older than when Travis had first met him.

The apartment was in a new building, one thrown up recently to help the housing shortage Starfleet's expansion had triggered. Plain, utilitarian. It didn't look like much more than "daily min" housing, the guaranteed level of protection offered by Earth Government. Daily Min was mostly used by students, older people without savings or family, and those who had never quite fit into society and found or kept a paying career.

Reed seemed to realize what Mayweather was thinking. "It's close," he said.

The apartment itself was nearly bare. The front room had a table for eating and a couple of folding chairs. Some storage boxes were neatly stacked along one wall and a shelf unit, the kind you'd normally see in a work room, was set against another wall, with smaller boxes and containers. The apartment must have come with the walls prepped for painting or covering by the occupant to suit his taste, but they were still unfinished. Everything was very neat and clean.

Malcolm took his gym bag with him to put away his things. "I bought some pilsner. That's the kind of beer you like, isn't it? It's in the fridge," he said over his shoulder as he went into another room.

Travis walked into the kitchen, very small, just enough room for the appliances and the built-in cabinets. He opened the refrigerator and sawâ€”nothing. Well, nearly nothing. A six pack of a good pilsner. A small open carton of whole milkâ€”maybe for tea. A half-eaten jar of mango chutney with lime. Seeing a case of bottled ale in an inside corner of the kitchen, Travis called out, "Malcolm. You want a Tetley?" and got one when he heard a muffled, "Yes, thanks," from the back.

Travis was curious. He opened one cupboard, and then another. The only food in the place was a box of tea (the kettle was on the counter), seven boxes of irradiated "Mister Eats: Egg, Bacon, Sausage (real English-style Banger) Breakfast," and five boxes of irradiated "Mister Eats: Broiled Tilapia with Couscous and Mixed Vegetables." There was also a large tub of some sort of combo fiber and nutritional mix with a Starfleet Medical prescription tag on it.

"Oh, Malcolm," Travis muttered.

He came out with the beers about the same time Malcolm came out.

Travis said, "The head back here?"

"To the left." Malcolm answered.

The bathroom was as clean and bare as one might expect in a hospital, Travis thought. As he came out he paused for just a moment looking into what had to be the bedroom. A single bed, made up, military style. A work table with tool chests, the computer, one chair. Spartan.

Travis had hoped that Reed would get over the Xindi mission. Could anyone ever get over such a thing? The months of nervous tension, the ship falling apart, the deaths of crewmates. And for Reed and a few others, infection with an alien virus, capture by the enemy, torture. He'd hoped the work would help get Malcolm squared away. Hoped too much, he guessed.

They sat at the table (it was a folding one, Travis noted, the same design as the one in the bedroom) and drank their beers and talked, just a bit, about the situation in the War Zone. Reed was obviously wishing he was out there.

Remembering recent gossip on the Enterprise, Mayweather asked, "Do you ever see Captain, I mean, Admiral Archer?"

There was a pause and Malcolm took another drink. "No," he finally said, "the Warp Seven research offices are on the other side of the campus from the Weapons Department. Our paths don't really cross."

"He sent us wedding announcements last year. Hoshi guessed he'd decided to make up for lost time, since he wouldn't have a command. It was kinda surprising just four months after he was reassigned to Earth. Sheâ€”Missus Archerâ€”looks nice."

"I heard that they'd known each other from before Enterprise's commission. From what I've heard, she's a lovely woman. I wouldn't haveâ€”well it's none of my business."

Travis nodded, "The baby, you mean? Yeah, Hoshi told me. It's too bad. He, well, if it was me, I don't think I would have let anyone know right away, about the baby. Not everybody knew what a long shot it was."

"You heard that they named it 'Charles,' didn't you?" Malcolm said tonelessly without looking at Travis. "The gesture might have been at bit more appropriate if they'd waited to see if it would live more than a few days."

Travis said softly, "I think Admiral Archer was trying to do something...something..."

"Nice? A nice gesture?" Malcolm got a hard scowl on his face. "Well, maybe they'll be lucky next time," he said, disgust dripping off his words, "Archer always did trust luck. I wouldn't hang the health of my wife and child on it. I don't think the odds are in his favor; certainly weren't in the baby's favor."

There was a long silence. Idiot, Travis thought. Hoshi had told him about the after-effects of the virus. She seemed to have come to some sort of peace with it. She, too, had wondered if Archer and his wife had made the right decision to try to have kids, but she wasn't so bitter about the whole thing.

Travis tried to ask him about the force field work, but Reed seemed dismissive of it.

"We got the schematics for your new force field generator," Travis said. "They're outfitting the ship now."

"The team's." Reed shrugged slightly. "It's better than what I was able to do on the first mission," Reed said. "It doesn't contain the extraneous harmonics; it's actually stable, but it's not much."

"Not much. Yeah, right. You can actually use it as a portable anti-grav, on ship indefinitely and with landing parties for sixteen hours. Shipboard you can set up an area of a 200 cubic meters for security, safety. Yeah, not much!"

Reed shrugged again. "I could have done it on the Enterprise, too, with a bit more help, a few analysis tools. The important thing is how it's used. I wish I could see how it's going to be used."

As they talked Travis saw that Malcolm often stole a glance to the shelving unit. And just as often, flicked his fingers across his hand in that nervous tic he seemed to have.

While they spoke, Travis had gotten up and walked over to the window, glancing out at the glow the setting sun had left on the horizon. He turned, and looked back across the room.

No, there was one piece of decoration in the room. Just one. Travis hadn't seen it because his back had been to it. Reed had a photograph of Commander Tucker in a frame, up on a shelf. It was nicely framed, with a black banded matte. It wasn't a snapshot. It might have been a service photograph. Travis' mother had told him what the black band meant. An old fashioned gesture. Dividing the quick and the dead.

It hurt to see Malcolm soâ€”injured. It certainly wasn't fair, if anything could be fair or unfair. But it seemed like Malcolm wasn't doing things that might help him do better. This bare apartment. Driving himself at exercise. Not getting rid of those scars. Like he was punishing himself.

Travis himself had a photo with Tucker in itâ€”a snap-shot taken on a planet they'd visited. In it Commander Tucker was smiling and examining a ground car the locals used. Why did Reed have this sort of picture? A formal sitting. It must have been one of the posed pictures Captain Archer had them make for the first New Year's Day they'd spent on the Enterprise. That was it. He could remember Crewman Dischmann, the zoologist; she was a great photographer. She set up a sheet of cloth for a backdrop, two shaded spots, and a reflector. She really enjoyed that party; posing them, making them sit just so. "Ja, now. Head UP, chin DOWN." She died back there, in the Expanse.

Oh, no. Travis now knew he'd been wrong. Malcolm wasn't trying to prove anything on the handball court. He was just his competitive self. Malcolm wasn't trying to prove anything by not having the scars removed. He just didn't care, not about his looks, anyway. Malcolm wasn't trying to get over his own capture, his own debility.

Malcolm wanted to save someone who was past saving. Maybe save all forty-eight someones. Damn. He'd never be able to do it. He could do all the applied research in the world and he'd never be confident that commanding officers would use the tools he was making correctly. He'd mull and fret and grieve over decisions he wouldn't ever be able to countermand or argue against.

It made Travis sad. It made him want to cry. It made him angry enough to want to grab Malcolm by the scruff of the neck and shake him.

"How are the people you work with? Made any friends?" Travis asked.

Malcolm answered in a hollow tone, "I'm pretty independent. I'm the senior officer to my team."

That was clear enough. Travis did want to shake him by the neck, good and hard. "Malcolm," he said, "Are you satisfied?"

"No," said Reed very seriously, "I wish I was getting better results with the force field generation, long range. We ought to be able to produce a beam to pull objects, like the ones we've seen other species use. If Iâ€”"

"That's not what I meant," said Travis with the irritation he felt edging his voice. "I mean, are you satisfied with yourself? Not your work, you."

Defensiveness in every word, Malcolm answered, "I was satisfied on the Enterprise. I was even, sometimes, happy on the Enterprise!"

I wish if I slapped you up the side of your head, I could knock some sense into you, Travis thought.

He burst out with, "And you'll make sure that you're never happy again, won't you? Don't let a feeling of achievement creep in! Don't let any new friends in. And if someone ever comes up to this apartment you've been camping out in for the last two years, you've got that picture of Trip to help get rid of themâ€”like a watch dog."

Oh, God. The look on Malcolm's face. Shock and now, uh, oh.

Reed was clutching the beer bottle as if he was about to break it into pieces. "What do you mean by that, Travis?" All cold and nasty. A way Malcolm had never spoken to him before.

And Travis answered as he'd never spoken to his friend before. "I mean that you're using your mourning for Trip, for all of them, to lock up yourself away from everything. I've asked about you, Malcolm. I've tried to find out how you are when every letter you send says, 'I'm fine,' in some flat, dead tone. People say you're a cold, hard person, now. You were never that way with me, before. Can't you imagine making a friend again?"

Rancor oozed out of his voice when Malcolm replied, "Well, Travis, I thought you were my friend. Before. I thought you understood what it's like to lose people youâ€”youâ€”were close to!"

Reed jumped out of the chair and stalked away from the table, the tiny room hemming him in. "Dammit, Travis! You were there! You know what happened!"

"I was. I know. I know it was awful. I know how badly it hurt for you to lose him that wayâ€”"

"That? Him? What do you mean? Why do you keep throwing Trip back atâ€”I don't know what you're implyingâ€”but I think you better watch that smart boomer mouth of yours, Travis!"

Travis backed up a step and felt the curtains against his back. "I'm not trying to imply anything. Trip was my friend, too, but everybody knew how close you felt to him.

"But it's unfair to you, to put that part of your life up in a box like miser's gold and say that nothing will ever be good again."

"Oh, is that what you think, Counselor Mayweather? I'm in some sort of hysterical mourning? 'Stop all the clocks?' 'Pour out the ocean, and sweep up the wood?' That sort of thing?"

And Travis knew his own face was saying, yes, yes, kind of like that, Malcolm.

Reed rushed at him and Travis put up one hand, but Malcolm passed him and grabbed the door knob, flinging the door open.

"Travis, get out of here now, beforeâ€”beforeâ€”"and Reed didn't finish it.

"Malcolmâ€”"

"Right now. Before things change any more." Malcolm didn't look straight at him.

Travis picked up his gym bag. In the doorway he stopped. "Malcolm I've screwed this up. Iâ€”"

"No. Not now. I'll see you next time. Watch yourself."

And the look on Reed's face said, don't make me lose you completely, too. So Travis left. What can I do, he thought as he went down the stairs. I wish, I wish I knew what to do.

* * *

When Mayweather was gone, Reed pounded his fists against the jamb, gritted his teeth and tried to keep from screaming. He could see Travis' face, all sunk down, as he had knelt by Trip's dead body. Then Reed had cut the bindings off Trip's wrists and they had both rolled the body over into the stretcher, to hide the clotted mat of blood on the back of his head. And Reed was clenching his left hand into knots. And Trip was sitting next to him in the Shuttlepod, reaching for the bourbon, their hands ice cold on the bottle, brushing together, and they lived through that one, but Trip was still dead. And he had to stop thinking about it.

He was rushing through the tiny room, shoving the table back. Kicking the chairs into the walls. And Trip's photo on the shelf, just a little smile on the face. His face was dried and discolored from the vacuum. And he smacked the black bordered frame off the shelf and into the wall. And he was out the door and down the stairs, and out into the damp cool night air, wishing he hadn't thrown Travis out of the flat.

He walked, and walked, and got cold and tired. He wasn't entirely sure where he was and he stopped changing directions and just started to walk to the east until he recognized a street. He finally did, just as a group of young people, probably in their twenties, wearing Starfleet training uniforms, came toward him. He wasn't in uniform, but they moved to one side of the walkway to help let them all pass each other.

Reed imagined, not in an angry way, but in a sad, sad way, of all of them dying. Some would be in compartments that would be decompressed to vacuum, and some would be killed by aliens boarding their ships, and some by diseases unnamed. There was nothing he could do about it. Their young handsome faces would fade away; to their families, to their friends and then they'd just be faces in picture frames. No one would remember even what they had looked like.

What they had looked like. What had they looked like? Once he'd been very good at that; seeing something, someone, recalling them later. He couldn't remember what those trainees had looked like and he'd seen their faces in the road lights just now. He couldn't remember what he looked like.

And then he picked up his pace, hurrying back as fast as he could. He couldn't remember at all, and he'd seen him nearly every day for three and a half years. A rise of panic. I don't remember what he looked like. Malcolm's breath was failing him, and his muscles aching as he staggered up the stairs and let himself in.

He got down and scrabbled on the floor among the pieces of the broken frame and the black matte and the shards of polyglass. He was sucking in air like a bellows, and then he found the photo. Yes, he did remember, of course he did remember, and he ran the fingertips of one hand over the face in the photo. He sat on the floor and caught his breath.

I'm ill, he thought. I'm as bollixed up as I can get. I knew Trip for three years and argued with him half that time and I miss him so, and I am so sick of him and I don't know what to do. If he were alive, he'd help me.

Malcolm cleaned up the room and went to bed, and when he was asleep tears leaked out of his eyes onto the pillow.

* * *

When Reed tried to call Mayweather the next day, he had already left San Francisco, and Reed could not bring himself to contact his personal COM code. Reed sent a message to the Enterprise instead, asking Travis to call him. He was too embarrassed to call Hoshi, although she had left him a message recently, asking how he was.

Reed really didn't know. He knew he had to do something. He had to.

Five days later he was working in the lab and got a message. It wasn't left on his COM code, the call had gone to the building reception area and an intercom message asked him to pick up.

"Malcolm," cried Mayweather from his end of the line, "I've got to talk to you for a minute. I thought about it and thought about it. I'm at the port waiting for the shuttle to Jupiter Station; I didn't have the guts to call you right away."

"Travis," Reed said, "I am sorry. You were trying to helpâ€”"

"Malcolm, I will talk to you about all of this, but I have to tell you, it's important. T'Pol's in Arizona."

It was as if Travis had said, "Admiral Forest is in a drag act on Titan." Malcolm simply held the COM in front of his face and stared into it. He finally said, "Arizona?"

"Yes. Yes. She's down there working for a mining company, living out in the desert by herself. And Malcolm, something is wrong with her. Some kind of brain or nerve or muscle disease. I saw her and she wouldn't speak to me. The folks down here say she's like a hermit. I can't do it, I've got to get back to the Enterprise, but Malcolm you've got to go find out what's wrong and see if someone can help her."

"Iâ€”yes. Yes, of course I will. Tell me how to find her."

"There's a town called Chinle near the New Mexico borderâ€”"


	6. Part 5

> If I can stop one heart from breaking,  
> I shall not live in vain:  
> If I can ease one life the aching,  
> Or cool one pain,  
> ...  
> I shall not live in vain.

On a map it looked as if Santa Fe was the closest city, but when he tried to rent an aircar there, the woman on the COM said he'd be better off taking an air shuttle to Cortez and renting there. "As the crow flies you're right, but it's safer to follow the main roads if you're not from around here. You'll be on the auto-guide until you turn off at Mexican Waters, and then it's a straight shot to Chinle."

Reed had wanted to make a rude remark at "safer." But now, on the short hike into the area Joseph Begay had highlighted on his map file, he could appreciate the advice. It was only June, but the sun beat down like actual blows. A breakdown might prove fatal in these canyons. He had put the car down on one of the only flat patches of ground, just above a dry streambed. The map and the GPS reading said he was only a half mile from where Begay was sure T'Pol was living, but the dry pounding heat and the rough footing made him glad that it was no farther.

Enough of that; he told Travis he'd find T'Pol. There were too few of them left to leave another one behind.

If T'Pol had wanted to find a better spot from which to avoid people, she probably could have, but this had to be near the top of any list. And if the she had wanted to hide herself within any group of people fundamentally at ease with the concept of "go away and leave me alone" this wasn't a bad choice either.

When Reed had arrived in the small dusty town, it became quickly obvious that nearly everyone he spoke to knew her or knew of her, but no one was particularly interested in his finding her. They weren't hostile, just unhelpful. The best he got was lips pursed out toward the barren looking horizon somewhere east (or south) of them and the recommendation that "the Vulcan lady lives out in the canyons. Catches mice out there."

Then while fueling his rental vehicle at the hydrogen depot, Reed had noticed that the owner had a scouting troop banner on the wall behind the counter. Ya te'eh. Yes, Joe Begay was a scout leader. His boys were mostly from south of Chinle, down the Natzlini Wash toward Rock Mesa. A scout, you say, Mister Reed; what ranking? An Eagle Scout? Kota Kinabalu, Malaysia, troop 18? Would Mister Reed, sure, Malcolm, like to get some coffee after the depot went on automatic for the night?

Reed did not mention T'Pol until they were finishing their coffee, an interesting conversation later. Instead of responding, Begay suggested they meet the following morning at a target range. So Reed found himself at a rough homebuilt firing range, stumbling his way through a morning with thirteen scouts between the ages of twelve and seventeen, letting them show him their clunky old projectile rifles and early energy bolt weapons. They also asked, and he answered, their stark, bare questions about the Xindi War. Begay had watched the interchanges, more or less silently. When the boys all left for their dinners, Begay suggested Reed would want to buy some gear before going out to see "the Vulcan lady."

A day after, Reed had a map to a cabin near Segetoa Springs, a bedroll, rations, and minimal survival gear, as well as a ludicrous looking but very serviceable wide-brimmed hat.

Begay had advised, "She gets her supplies taken out to her by one of the Yazzie girls down by Bonito. They won't help you. They like her and think she doesn't want to see anybody, any time. She comes into town or goes over to Window Rock about every month or so. Yeah, she's kinda sick. Has a palsy; trouble with her hands. When I've seen her she's always real quiet, business-like. But she got into a fight in Window Rock, and some people say she's a little wild, a little strange. If you're her friend, you ought to jest goâ€”see her. She'd havta be a real monster to refuse you a place to sit in the shade and get some water, once you got out there."

Reed paused again to make sure he was making progress down the wash to the spring. Canyon walls rose up steeply on either side and the dirt and sand that had collected in the bottom supported no grass, only widely spaced plants with flat lacey leaves or spiky fronds. But most of these were in bloom and small bees and gnats gathered around them. He came around a sharp turn and scrambled up into a narrow side channel of the canyon.

Here one wall was entirely in shade, although the morning sun would have hit it. In a hollow not directly in the wind, he saw a very smudged, but recognizable boot mark in the dustâ€”a small narrow footprint. The GPS signal said he was right on top of it. A few more steps and he saw a very small building, no more than a single room. It looked as if it were coated with an adobe mix, natural or synthetic, and built into the rock wall on a ledge, a good seven meters off the floor of the wash. Reed came a bit closer and saw the narrow trace of irregular steps, some natural, some artificial, nearly invisible, that led to it.

Most of the ground surface was solid rock, but there was some dust. The wind through the canyon was swift, blowing the dust up. Reed put his palm into the patch at the foot of the steps and watched the edges of the impression he made only slowly eroding in the wind. Satisfied, he sat down in the shade of the canyon wall to wait for T'Pol to decide to come out and see him.

She waited until the sun was very low by the angle in made on the opposite wall. He heard the narrow door open and looked up to see her standing there above him. As she stood there, still, he didn't see anything abnormal at first, but then he noticed that she was wearing braces on both her wrists, and that the fingertips of her left hand trembled.

Her voice was nearly drowned out in the whistle of the wind. "Are you hungry, Mister Reed?"

He nodded, and she said, "There is not much room in here. Leave your gear."

The cabin was tiny, clean, and very bare. A single bunk was built into one wall and above it, high enough to allow you to sit on the bunk, was a wide shelf with scanning equipment, and other electronic gear, tools and containers. On the wall in between was a tabletop, folded away. There was a very small table where a bi-metallic reaction stove sat, a stool, and a chest. Under the table was a basin.

She had a pot on the stove, and there was the scent of herbs, and maybe carrots and turnips.

Reed said, "Hello, Sub-Commander."

"I no longer hold that rank," she said. Reed now noticed that she had a slight droop to her left shoulder. She sat on the bunk and gestured to the stool, and he sat down.

There was a long pause and he could hear, very faintly, the sound of the broth in the pot bubbling, and much louder, the wind. Despite the shade and the thickness of the walls, it was very warm inside.

"I had imagined that having no public COM registry would have prevented this. You have come to try and get me to come away from here." She said.

"Not necessarily."

"Then you have come to determine my state of health and why I am on Earth and not Vulcan."

"Correct."

She inclined her head and her hands on her lap trembled. "What if I simply told you that I do not wish to be 'rescued' from my current situation?"

"You know I wouldn't believe you unless you answered those questions you mentioned. And you know I won't leave you, here, because you didn't abandon me, there."

"It was logical to attempt a rescue. We had not determined the prime targets of the nest chambers or the food storage areas. There was a chance that your party had that information. Additionally we could not afford to lose additional personnel."

"It was still horribly dangerous. And it was illogical for you to be part of the rescue party."

"I owed it to him."

"Captain Archer?"

T'Pol merely rose, went to the chest and retrieved a potato masher, and a large handful of greens. She stood next to Reed and began to mash the vegetables in the pot on the stove. The awkwardness of her movements showed her disability. T'Pol had always been so graceful. She came close to tipping the pot off the stove, and when Reed put a hand out to try and steady it, she managed to replace it with one hand, and stopped his hand from touching it with her other.

Her fingertips were warm against his palm, and he remembered when he had been so cold, hanging there in a haze of pain from the Xindi torture-surgery, and T'Pol's hand against his had felt so hot. Hayes had started crying again when they had heard the noise, and Reed had strained to make out the source. The torches had shone directly on them and he had tried to shield his eyes with his one functional hand. Someone had gasped loudly and Reed saw T'Pol's figure (he knew from her size and how she moved) coming toward him. He jerked out his arm and his voice was like a rusted door opening, "Don't. Booby-trap," but she had already taken his hand. And so they had hung there a bit longer as their rescuers scanned them to see if they had been given any implants, and T'Pol's hot, clean hand had held his clammy, cold, bloodied one. Hayes had begun screaming as he saw by the lights that Mareno was hanging there with them, stone dead.

"I have it," she said unnecessarily as she righted the pot and began to rip the greens into the simmering soup.

"Lieutenant Commander," she said slowly, "If I explain my situation to you, will you respect my current need for privacy?"

"T'Pol, if you are safe and getting adequate treatment for whatever is wrong, I'll go away and not bother you again, if you wish." He did not give his definition of "safe."

She nodded and continued with the meal. She began to speak in almost an absent-minded fashion, as if this story was something she had considered in her mind so many times that it was becoming boring to her.

"There is a disease that afflicts the nervous system of Vulcans. It is chronic and there is no known cure. It is called 'Pa'nar' and I have contracted it. Eventually it will affect my nervous system to a debilitating extent and I will no longer be able to care for myself. That is highly unlikely to happen very soon, but I will not live the typical lifespan of a Vulcan female. Currently the physical effect is fairly limited, as you can see. I am fully capable of collecting biological specimens for the firm with which I have contracted, and of caring for myself in this location so long as I have my current arrangement of being brought supplies."

She had brought out spoons and two bowls; one was a small mixing bowl. She also brought out a container and took from it two large rounds of soft white-golden bread, flecked with brown toasted splotches.

"I down-and up-link COM messages from a microwave unit antenna mounted above us at the lip of this canyon, so I am not as unaware of the outside world as you may think. I see a neurologist in Window Rock once every two months. She is in contact with a xeno-physiologist at Starfleet Medical. Together they are monitoring my condition."

T'Pol now looked up from seasoning the soup. "So," she said, "there is no logical reason for you or Lieutenant Mayweather to be concerned. I am fine."

Reed had listened silently. Now he tried to approach T'Pol's revelation in a calm and logical manner, to appeal to her own outlook. "T'Pol," he said, "I am very concerned and very regretful that you've been afflicted with this, 'Pa'nar.' But wouldn't you be able to get better treatment back on Vulcan?"

She ladled soup into the bowls. "No. This disease is neither the focus of much study or attempts to combat it or its effects by Vulcan physicians, nor is it well understood by the general public on Vulcan, being quite rare, and having negative associations. Doctor Phlox was able to devise a treatment as effective as any after he had examined the most advanced Vulcan studies. The physicians I am working with have Doctor Phlox's research. I am receiving the most advanced treatment and monitoring.

"Now, this soup is quite unpalatable when cold. I suggest we consume it. You may keep your current seat, but please turn away from the bunk." When she saw Reed's startled look, she continued, "I will be sitting there and I do not wish for you to see me eating."

She held her soup bowl and the bread in splinted, trembling hands.

Reed turned and cautiously began to eat, listening as he heard her sit on the bunk. "Besides," he heard her continue, as if it were perfectly normal to eat facing your guest's back a bare two feet away, "I enjoy the taste of this fry bread made by Blind Ben Yazzie's daughter, Myra. I have no wish to leave."

"Blind Ben Yazzie?"

There was a pause while, he assumed from the sounds, T'Pol was chewing and swallowing. "It is not a pejorative referring to his disability," she said. "Instead it is a descriptor to separate him from five other Ben Yazzies who live in this immediate area."

As they ate Reed suspected that T'Pol's infirmity had affected her motor control so that she felt self conscious about being less careful and precise. He could hear her spoon clattering against the sides of her bowl, and various smacks and noises as she got the food into her mouth. The poor woman. How horrible for someone of an alien race who had mastered mental self-control to be betrayed by a physical ailment. He considered how to ask her the potentially embarrassing question he had formulated. The soup tasted harsh and salty. The bread was an oily, tasteless mass to him.

Finally, Reed heard T'Pol rise, and he turned around again. She was bending to get the basin. They piled the dishes into it.

"We can clean them outside," T'Pol said, picking up a small spray bottle, he assumed of cleanser. Before she could pick up the basin, Reed took it, and carried it out.

The sun had not yet set, but it could only be seen high on the opposite wall. They were entirely in shadow. Together they walked to a small structure below and beyond the cabin that Reed hadn't seen before.

"A composting toilet," she explained.

She began to scrub the dishes with sand. Reed now realized from desert training, and long ago Scout camping, what she was doing and helped her, setting each scoured item onto a bare rock. The soiled sand went into the toilet, and T'Pol sprayed the dishes and basin with the waterless cleaner.

"It is cool now," she said. "We can sit here for the time the disinfectant metabolizes."

As they sat Reed finally asked, "T'Pol. Surely the Vulcans could make use of the same research that Doctor Phlox had documented? Why did you feel the need to leave Vulcan again? You said, 'negative associations?'"

He could not have been more startled by the response. The tremor was much more pronounced, her entire arms shook. Her face had gone from placid neutrality to a fierce snarl of rage, and she rose up and glared down at him.

"How would you like your every colleague, co-worker, and acquaintance to pity and despise you? To be disgusted by your presence as they simultaneously congratulated themselves on their enlightenment at allowing you to be in the same room with them?

"How would you like every introduction to begin, 'And this is Lieutenant Commander Reed, who was stripped naked and touched and scratched and penetrated by giant chittering monsters? Who cut him open and pulled out pieces of him? But we recognize it was not his fault?' Be reminded, 'This is the same Security Officer Reed you've heard of who was unable to keep nearly half the complement of his ship from dying on the mission?' To have thrown in your face under the guise of concern, 'We cannot consider him to be completely sane because he snaps at his co-workers, and does not show appropriate reaction to others?'"

She was advancing toward him, tears welling up and streaming down her cheeks. He carefully rose, realizing that even in her state, she could easily injure him. Or herself.

"Because that is what it was like for me on Vulcan! Because I was T'Pol, the crazed! T'Pol, the unwary! T'Pol who was foolish and flattered enough to trust a diseased pervert to perform a dangerous act with her! T'Pol who is pitied. My own mother is disgusted by me! She cannot understand how I failed to heed obscure and vague warnings she gave me as a child!"

She rushed past him, toward the steps to the cabin, weaving and stumbling.

Reed went after her, calling her name, begging her to stop, to listen to him. He reached out and touched her shoulder and she whipped around, clipping his arm with a blow from her fist that knocked him back, almost off his feet. And then she had clambered up to and through the cabin door.

And everything went very still. The wind whistled around him.

He had seen T'Pol overcome with emotion only twice in his life, and both experiences were ones he wished he could forget, they were so full of contradictory feelings for him.

On the Seleya she had been affected by the Trellium-D the Vulcan crew had been trying to use. He had berated himself for having mistaken her instructions and damaged the computer relays, and had only later realized that he had followed her instructions exactlyâ€”that she had begun spouting nonsense under the influence of the chemical. On the return trip, she had thrashed in the rear of the shuttlepod screaming incoherently as the Captain and Hawkins tried to restrain her, and he had felt guilty that he had been considering his own "correctness" instead of his shipmate's health.

Before the mission into the Expanse she had once been infected with an alien spore while on a landing party, something that Phlox described as similar to the pollen that had affected an entire landing party early in their explorations. They had locked down Deck B while he and his people tried to capture her. She had draped herself around him, her warm breath fogging the outside of his EV helmet faceplate and the pressure of one of her legs starting to wrap around his calf. She told him she had seen him looking at her, that he could have her right then and there. He'd felt eaten alive with shame. Mentally mooning and slobbering over her body in that semi-detached way he'd always had with attractive women and she had been completely aware of it.

He'd mistreated her, or at least he'd not mentally respected her rank, herself. She'd saved his life, saved all their lives, saved Trip on that damned miserable planet with the hellish winds and the poisonous pollen. Reed would never have even known Trip, not really, if she hadn't helped get them all back safe.

He climbed up the steps in the fading light, careful to avoid her if she decided to come rushing out that door. He could not, he would not leave.

"T'Pol," he called. "I'm not leaving you. You're not well. No matter what happened, no matter how they treated you on Vulcan, you don't deserve to be this ill. No deserves to be harmed like this; no one deserves to be unwell."

He listened, and he could hear her. She had come to the wooden door. He could hear ragged breathing, and almost grunts of pain or anger. She was right behind the door, no more than a foot away from him. Instead of backing away to avoid the swing of the door, he carefully leaned in toward it, placing his face and the palms of his hands against it.

"I won't leave you, T'Pol," he said. "You're my friend and I won't leave you like this."

There was a pause, and he started, but did not move when there was a sudden hard impact to the other side of the door.

"Go away," she snarled, the sound almost a growl. "I'm not fit to be around anyone, especially a friend. Please."

"I ought to call emergency medical or the sheriff," he said. "You need help."

There was a bitter laugh from inside, high and breathy and ironic. "You can't call any of them," she said, "it's too dark for a Human to climb out of the canyon to high ground signal them with your COM. It's probably too dark to safely remove the air car from wherever you parked it."

He doubted that, but said, "Then I can't leave, either. It's too dark for me to get back to the aircar. I didn't bring an adequate torch."

"Liar!" came a snorting laugh. There was another pause.

"I will not let you see me anymore like this, but I promise you, I will not harm myself. Oh, no!" More of the hysterical laugh. "No, this happens. Too often. I will take my sedative and go to sleep. I do not harm myself."

She did not speak to him again, though he called her. He could hear her moving around inside, and once for a few moments, he saw the light from behind the one small window. Finally he heard creaking noise. The bunk? Not knowing what else to do, he decided to trust her and wait for the morning.

He carefully felt his way to his gear, unrolled the sleeping bag and pad, and laid it across the path, directly under the steps. He climbed in and tried to think about what she had said. When had she caught this disease? How had she caught it? Was it sexually transmitted? That certainly was what he had inferred. Had she contracted it on Vulcan after the Xindi War?

No. No. She had been sick on Enterprise. Not the Trellium-D; before that. Phlox said it was a spore, but was that all? What would a Vulcan be embarrassed, ashamed about? Emotion. Those other Vulcans. The emotional ones. My God, Archer had ordered them to leave, suddenly changed Reed's instructions and had them accompanied until they left. Vaguely revealed an argument, a disagreement of some kind, with T'Pol and the other Vulcans. It had been damned strange.

And after that, T'Pol had behaved so oddly sometimes. Not very oddly for a Human, but oddly for someone who was supposed to control and bury their emotions. Fits of emotion. Fits and shaking.

The fits she had had when Trip was killed. He vaguely remembered them; T'Pol snapping at Archer, throwing something in the mess and breaking it. Grace notes over his own crushing symphony of self-pity and sadness and anger. They had played some horrible hymns at Trip's funeral service. Before they'd ejected the body out into space again. A tight orbit around a star. Cremation; that was clean. A fireâ€”a clean fire. Reed was freezing and wished he had a fire. Like the one they'd all sat around on the Rogue Planet. And the Captain had seemed to want to speak to T'Pol about something so he'd gotten up to leave and tapped Trip on the shoulder and they'd both gone to bed. And it was cold after they weren't moving around anymore, and sometime in the endless night Trip had moved his sleeping bag over closer and he had been half awake and started, and Trip had patted him on the arm and said, "Jus' me," in a sleepy voice, and they had both gone back to sleep. And then Trip was dead and the night was endless and he'd never wake up again. And Reed curled tightly up in the sleeping bag, clutching his arms tight around himself and his hands under them and drummed his thumb against his deeply calloused fingertips, and thought he would never be warm again.

Reed woke from the sunlight hitting the canyon wall, high up, over T'Pol's cabin. The sky was a bright searing blue, without a hint of cloud. Before he could get out of the sleeping bag, the door of the cabin opened, and T'Pol came out.

When she reached the bottom of the steps, he'd rolled out of her way. She looked at him with clear and unclouded eyes and said, "When we have prepared for the day, I would like to speak to you. I am very sorry for yesterday'sâ€”spectacle."

"If these outbursts of emotion are caused by theâ€”Pa'narâ€”you don't have any reason to be ashamed of showing them to me, T'Pol. Just as you shouldn't be ashamed of my seeing the palsy in your hands."

"And yet, I am disturbed by showing either," she said, quietly. Then she turned and walked out toward the toilet compartment.

They both cleaned up. She used a basin of water out there, drawn from a cistern, and then got him one as well, asking him to dump the used on a clump of plants growing by the toilet compartment. The plants were covered in tiny orange buds. She had nurtured them there. They would be blooming soon.

Breakfast was tea and toasted fry bread, which tasted somewhat better to Reed now. He offered, and she accepted, portions of applesauce out of the rations he'd brought. She was going out to collect specimens from her "trap line" and he went with her. She wore a large, serviceable, definitely feminine sun hat. He wore the hat Begay had suggested he buy. T'Pol glanced at it a bit oddly.

All through the canyon she had traps. They were very small; she could hold one in her palm. In most traps there was a rodentâ€”like a house mouse, but smaller and with a fawn coat. They could be held firmly in a little collar by the opening. From each creature T'Pol took a small sample of blood, and then dabbed a bit of blue dye on the back before letting it go. A few times she found mice that had already been dyed, and these she simply released.

As they walked, and sometimes climbed, a very long and tenuous conversation was pieced out. They made plenty of stops when Reed would start gasping, the altitude and heat too much for him. She would not clearly answer all he wanted to know, but she clarified what he had guessed.

She had been infected by one of the Vulcans from Tavin's ship, although she had not realized it for nearly a year. Transmission was through a mental contact. T'Pol's companion in this "meld" must have been infected. She had not known this, but she had tried to stop the mental contact; it had been painful, increasingly unpleasant, and he had forced her to continue and submit to it.

Reed was horrified by the idea that Vulcans might be capable of forced telepathy. Could it be used as a weapon? Could anyone's thoughts be "stolen?" To his relief T'Pol explained that it could only be performed among Vulcans, and the initiation was only possible for a small genetic minority. The brain structure of other species was too different for such contact to be possible. Vulcan physiologists had categorically shown the brain structure of Vulcans to be unique to the species.

She would not tell Reed the nameâ€”although when he mentioned Kov, the only one of them he'd spoken with, she strongly indicated a negative. Why hadn't Archer taken him into custody? Because she had requested that the Captain simply get him off the ship as quickly as possible. She had not even explained, at the time, all the details to Archer.

She had been ashamed. She had been unwise. She had tried something regarded as deviant, foreign, beast-like, primitive. As emotions were primitive. As Humans and Andorians and Klingons were primitive, she explained stiffly, with a hint of both embarrassment and irony. She had known the act was abhorrent, but she had been unfamiliar with the disease it sometimes spread. It was not something proper for discussion in a Vulcan home or school. And Reed realized that there were layers upon layers of chauvinism, and tradition, and ignorance at work on the shame that she felt, the anger that she felt.

T'Pol had been assigned to the Enterprise because her supervisors thought she was familiar with Humans, that she had an ability to work with their emotions and not to be disgusted by them, to observe without judgment. She had applied that same objectivity to other Vulcans, and added a willingness to experiment with a male she had found attractive and exciting. And then she discovered she had trusted the wrong person, and trusted too much.

Phlox theorized in some abnormal cases the meld would excite neurons so that they would continue to fire in an abnormal way, eventually producing the syndrome called Pa'nar. Pa'nar excitations would randomly fire the brain's control of normally voluntary muscle function. But, more importantly to the shunning of victims of the disease, was a loss of emotional control, a breakdown of inhibition. A Vulcan so afflicted would pass the "excitation" along if he had this mental contact again.

And so, she had come here. To a place that reminded her of her home, but without other Vulcans. Humans might view her seizures as problematic, and even disturbing when they turned on anger, as the one the day before had. But Humans would not find them disgusting, horrendous, deserving of putting her away. And if she laughed or cried, well, that might merely be eccentric, backward, or out of place.

It was coming into midday, and there was very little shade. They sat in the lee of a cliff, resting, and drinking water. Now T'Pol said, "Do you believe me now when I say that I am unharmed by my preferred location?"

To Reed the land did have a certain harsh beauty, but it was alien and threatening. Reed kept thinking of all the ways someone might die out here. But T'Pol seemed completely relaxed. She had pointed out plants and named them; named animals by tracks and scat, and birds by their song. She was an enthusiast of this place. The data she was collecting for her company was not difficult to retrieve, the analysis simple. She told, in a calm voice, of observing these animals and plants, of writing short monographs on the nature of the canyons. She wrote of no new discovery, nothing a Human had not seen before. But it was all new to her, and that made it worthwhile.

"T'Pol, you seem to have all the necessities arranged for. But surely the isolation is difficult? Aren't youâ€”disturbed when you have these 'spells?'"

"It is better when no one else is here to see them. I know that Humans are unlikely to be as shocked by them as Vulcans are, but they seem to be worse when I am in close proximity to others.

"I am trying to understand emotions better. In light of my move here."

"How can you do that, if you so seldom see other people?"

"I read," she said. "Human fiction. Emotion somehow seems more accurate when related in fiction. Also, I am fond of poetry. I prefer poems with set meter and rhyme; Emily Dickinson among others."

Reed laughed. "I'm sorry," he said, "I just never imagined that you would like poetry. Particularly, poems about Human emotions. Pretty limited of me, I suppose, to pigeonhole people by their reading habits."

Trip had told him that Superman was layered with subtext. Every time he saw a child reading a comic off a flimsy-PADD, Reed wanted to demand they explain the appeal.

T'Pol was looking at him, a deeply considered look. "And you, Mister Reed, I am aware of your efforts at Starfleet, from technical summaries. What do you do to occupy your spare time?"

Without pausing to consider, he blurted out, "I try not to have too much of that." Then he haltingly said, "I mean...what I meant to say was...I'm very busy with work. The work with Weapons Research, and I've been asked to review some plans for the academy they want to start. I'm very busy."

She glanced atâ€”what? His hand?â€”and then to her own trembling hands, laying in her lap. T'Pol said, "You are not the only one capable of tracing records, and speaking to third parties, and making deductions. Malcolm. I will call you that since you have said we are friends. Malcolm, you were exceedingly disturbed by our casualties in the Expanse."

"Weren't we all?" he interrupted.

"Yes. But not all of us developed a nervous physical habit we still follow. Not all of us are as noted by our colleagues as much for our defenses against the friendship of others, as we are for technical knowledge."

Reed felt indignation about to erupt from him, when suddenly T'Pol darted out with her shuddering hand and grasped his clenched left hand. She pulled it toward her and he let her open it up. She held his hand and gently touched his rough, calloused, fingertips.

"Close your eyes," she said, very softly. He didn't know what she was up to and gritted his teeth, tensed. "Think of yourself on a turbulent ocean," she continued. Sudden panic flared in him.

"I am sorry," T'Pol said quickly, "Focus. You are miles from any water. You are climbing in these canyons. You cling high above the ground, but you have the power to secure your footfalls. You will not lose your grip. The stone is perfectly secure. You are in control."

T'Pol kept stroking his finger tips. The touch was not in any way exciting, which was certainly how he had once thought about the possibility of being touched by her. It was soothing, calming. He was high up on the canyon wall, climbing. He would not fall. Reed felt all the rancor flowing away, away for the moment. Just the sadness remaining, just the grief.

"What are you doing to me?" he asked, not particularly worried. "Is this some sort of mentalâ€”?"

"No, of course not," she said, a little sharply. "All Vulcans can do this, it is only focused meditation. I am merely thinking with you. Think. Think of climbing. You are in control.

"Malcolm, when you spoke of keeping to busy with work to have spare time, you became upset and stabbed at your fingertips with your thumb. Do you remember that you started this 'response' after Commander Tucker was killed?"

Reed opened his eyes, blinking in the bright light. "I don't really know. It's really a bit blurry. Someone showed it to meâ€”a trick, to stop thinking about things. I couldn't stop thinking about Trip, and I would do this. Sort of like getting a little electric jolt to stop you from doing something. I don't think I really thought about it, about him, while we were still on the mission. I guess it didn't work anymore, when we got back home."

She asked, "Do you think about Commander Tucker now?"

"I try not to."

"Why?"

Reed said, "I owe it to him to remember him, and all the others, but it hurts too much. I should have kept it from happening." Reed had a sudden, jarring thought that he shouldn't be bothering T'Pol with his problems. He had come out here to this dry hell hole to help her. He gently pulled his hand away from hers.

T'Pol looked out on the white hot desert. "You cannot deny your nature. And to try to protect those you love, those you honor, is part of that nature. The emotions surrounding that need are also your nature.

"Emotions are not of my nature. Emotions are part of my disease. The worst among them all is regret."

There was a long pause. Reed could feel the moisture being sucked right out of his skin. "Regret for things you failed to do?" he asked.

"No," she said simply, "for the things I did and should not have done. It could have been you, you know; it could have been anyone. But I picked someone most likely to be hurt by it." Reed hadn't the faintest idea what she meant.

They made their way back to the cabin, now in the shade, protected by the canyon walls. He could not insist that T'Pol leave this place. Despite her illness, she was content here, for now. She had objectively examined her options, and she had chosen this one. To live among emotional Humans, but away from them. To avoid the pangs to her emotions by living apart, but to seek to understand them by study.

When she asked him to stay another night, Reed agreed.

They sat inside and talked while she analyzed the blood samples. He asked her what fiction she had read and was, again, surprised when she indicated some of the most "Human" of all stories, with interactions of odd characters and a cavalcade of emotions: Dickens, Austin, and pure fantasies, like Tolkien, and more recent fiction by Hebrin, especially her stories about the rebuilding after the Eugenics War.

Like Reed, T'Pol enjoyed poems from the Victorian and Edwardian era. "Boy's poems," Reed called them, full of patriotism and high ideals, popular again just two generations before, in the aftermath of the Wars the Vulcans had found them recovering from at First Contact. She found the extreme emotions depicted fascinating, alien, and instructive. She found the penchant for considering death and the possible afterlife to be obsessive, the longing for youth likewise.

"Old age and experience are considered the epitome of achievement and goal for Vulcans," she said.

Reed countered, "What you consider old age lasts longer for you than for Humans. And, if I understand, you normally enjoy it with far less illness than Humans do."

She considered him. "Do you consider poetry instructive and stating moral tone?"

"Generally, yes."

She quoted, "'If I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not have lived in vain...' and yet, the inevitability of death seems overwhelming to Humans; impossible to escape. 'There is room in the halls of pleasure, for a long and a lordly train, But one by one we must all file on, Through the narrow aisles of pain.'"

"But Wilcox wasn't necessarily talking about death," Reed countered, "she was writing about the pain of all sorts of suffering, all though life. Other poets speak of death without much fear, and at the end of a long, worthwhile life, perhaps it's not an enemy."

"An example."

He answered, "'I must go down to the sea again, to the vagrant gypsy life, To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife, And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow rover, And a quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.'"

She raised one eyebrow.

"Masefield." He answered.

"But he postulates the presence of a 'laughing fellow rover.'"

"Yes," said Reed, softly, "that's best."

There was a silence in the little room. And Reed desperately tried to think of nothing at all.

T'Pol said, "If you do not wish to answer, do not do so. Do all Humans feel the need for a 'best friend?' As poets describe it?

Reed answered, "'Best' is relative. Some Humans make friendships easily; some break them just as well."

She quoted again, and Reed felt his chest tighten as he heard the familiar Woodberry poem, "'In the width of the world there were no such roversâ€”Back to back, breast to breast, it was ours to stay; And the highest on earth was the vow that we cherished, To spur forth from the crowd and come back never more, And to ride in the track of great souls perished Till the nests of the lark shall roof us o'er.'

"Is such a friendship necessarily separated from the feelings involved in what is termed 'romance?'"

The turmoil Reed would have felt if anyone else had asked him this question was less because T'Pol was not Human. She was not trying to trick him, or embarrass him.

He said, "Romance, as in the feelings married people have? That wasn't always true when marriage was the only means to raise children and secure prosperity for one's self."

"Yes," she answered. "Your description of historic Human marriage is of great similarity to the idea behind 'marriage' on Vulcan, although compatibility is considered laudable."

Reed continued, haltingly, hoping to explain it to her, and perhaps to himself as well, "So, can a best friend be a 'soul mate?' Yes. Does one have to be? No. Can such a friendship be 'romantic?' Yes. Must it be? No."

Her eyes were very wide and dark as she watched him. "Was Commander Tucker your best friend? And were you, his?"

He was hanging onto the canyon wall in the dusk. There was no light to see where to cling. But, suddenly, he knew there was a handhold just beyond his hand, and he stretched farther out, felt it, strong and unbreakable. He pulled himself up and over the ledge.

"Yes, he was," Reed said, suddenly sure that he could tell her this. "But I don't know exactly how Trip felt about me. I wish someone could tell me. I feel horribly guilty for wanting to know."

"I cannot answer that," she said, "but that you were friends to each other is certain. A Vulcan would have seen it as easily as a Human. Is reciprocity necessary for such things among Humans?"

"T'Pol," he said, "if Trip didn't feel exactly for me what I feel for him, it wouldn't change my feelings. But I think most people would think that wasn'tâ€”normal. And maybe if I knew he'd felt something similar, then I would feel lessâ€”crazed. Somehow more justified to be as ruined as I am."

T'Pol's eyes strayed from his face over his body.

"Not ruined, here," Reed said, resting his palm on the left side of his shirt front, over the long hideous scar it covered. "That's just meat." He closed his hand into a fist and pressed it over his heart. "Ruined in here. I can't seem to stop feeling soâ€”pitifully sad." He bent his head down and raised his hand to press his forehead. "And here. I can't seem to think of any good things, just death. I ought not to feel this way."

She bent toward him from her stool and cupped her hands in his line of sight, the fingers jerking slightly. "How many emotions lie in my hands," she asked, "and how deep are they? Are they superficial, or full of meaning?"

He looked up at T'Pol. "That question doesn't make sense," he replied.

"Correct. All you can know are your own feelings. No one else can measure them and say, 'they are too great; they are misplaced.' Think of Commander Tucker as your friend, without other concern. Don't be afraid.

"And as for you," she said, "You are back from a great journey, one where much was lost and much was saved. No one can deny how badly you have been hurt, but now you must decide. Are you to be Frodo or Sam? Will you be the hero who was wounded and never recovers? Or will you be the hero who builds something for himself and others?"

"T'Pol," he asked, "How did you learn all this? Just by reading Human books?"

"No. By being wounded, and having wounded others."

He left early the next day to avoid the great heat of midday to return to the air car. T'Pol told him how to contact her and stood at the foot of the steps to her little house while he put together his gear. When he finally stood, he saw the odd look on her face again.

"You looked at me like that yesterday, too. What is the matter?"

"It is your hat," she said carefully, as if to avoid any hint of emotion. "I saw Commander Tucker once in such a hat. It did not quite suit him, I thought, but it appears even more out of place on you."

Reed found himself smiling. "I'm just an ol' cowhand," he said, in a sudden memory of watching old films with Trip. He continued, "I wish Trip could see me; he'd laugh his arse off."

"You may be correct. Figuratively, of course," she said.

Reed piloted the vehicle back to Cortez and took the air shuttle that evening to San Francisco. He dozed on the last leg of the journey, and dreamed of riding a horse, something he had never done. It was like flying. At one point Trip was riding alongside him. In the dream, Trip asked, "Is the trail ahead safe?" And he had answered, "I'll make sure it is."


	7. Part 6

> To my small Hearth His fire cameâ€”  
> And all my House aglow  
> Did fan and rock, with sudden lightâ€”  
> 'Twas Sunriseâ€”'twas the Skyâ€”
> 
> Impanelled from no Summer briefâ€”  
> With limit of Decayâ€”  
> 'Twas Noonâ€”without the News of Nightâ€”  
> Nay, Nature, it was Dayâ€”

Reed wrote to Mayweather and explained, briefly, that T'Pol was getting the help she needed and that she was as contented as seemed possible living with a chronic illness. And Reed had to admit that she was. The lapses of self control were obvious body blows to her image of herself, but she seemed to be coping as happily as possible. If you could say that about a Vulcan. Reed was less sure about himself, but the trip to Arizona had seemed to have had some effect on him. If T'Pol could handle her affliction, he thought he somehow ought to be able to manage his own. He just didn't know how, yet. Reed and T'Pol began a cautious, simple correspondence. She refused to use video letters and instead sent text, and so he replied in kind. At first he thought that she was merely trying to placate him and prevent any future visits to try and remove her from her hermitage. But slowly he realized that that was not her intent.

T'Pol wrote about the canyons. Reed wrote about his work and the very occasional messages he received from Mayweather and Sato. And they both wrote about English literature. She often sent him poems she had found and asked for explanation of the Human emotions she found confusing or problematic.

T'Pol wrote so often about her current favorite Human poet, Emily Dickinson, that Reed downloaded her collected works one night after reading T'Pol's latest letter. On reading some of the poems, Reed felt that T'Pol must be goading him in some obscure Vulcan way. The small, timid looking woman staring out from the photo from three hundred years in the past hardly seemed capable of the passion in the writing. Dickinson had many neat turns of phrase: "If I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not have lived in vain," although she then often ruined it by writing about helping baby robins, or some such nonsense.

But Reed froze when he found the stanzas:

To my small Hearth His fire cameâ€”  
And all my House aglow  
Did fan and rock, with sudden lightâ€”  
'Twas Sunriseâ€”'twas the Skyâ€”

He sometimes dissolved into bitter anger over T'Pol's questions, asking him about Human emotion and feelings. Reed felt as if she were trying lead him through some mental exercise, like the one they had performed in the canyon. He had tried it himself, but it didn't work as it had when she had held his hand. Now he clutched at the rock wall and felt the visceral pull of empty space and the jagged rocks on the canyon floor.

But T'Pol had not sent him this poem, he had found it himself. That's what it had been like, even when he and Trip had argued and sniped at one another. Like standing at a bright, warming fire. Like never having been in a truly warm and bright room before. Sometimes a spark would burn you, but how could you give up the warmth and light?

Reed snapped off the PADD, turning off the timid Lady Poet who had lived in her father's house her whole life and somehow divined his grief three centuries in her future.

The ashes on the hearth were dark and cold now. And so was he.

* * *

The Romulan War did not seem to be going well, although rumors had it that Starfleet senior officers had actually been in long distance communication with someone, perhaps someone important within the Romulan government. Between this conflict and the residual fear left after the Xindi War, there were few arguments against the building campaign Starfleet was authorized to pursue, and the diplomatic overtures Earth was pursuing with friendly, or at least neutral, alien species. Archer was involved in talks with the Andorians, aimed at forming an alliance, a multilateral alliance, with the Vulcans involved as well. Archer was, still, bearing a bit of a charmed life. He was the devil everyone knew. But he was a diplomat on the mission. Not a commander.

At the research laboratory Reed and his team were trying to improve the strength of the force fields they could generate. One day during an exercise, Reed checked phase pistols out of the weapon lock-up for his people to use in tests. When he asked for them to reconfigure the power coils he was surprised that two of the engineers did not know how to perform the change.

"Haven't you received training on the phase pistols?" he asked. "No, sir," said Ensign Liu, "Only the EM-31."

And Bennett added, "Our training focused on engineering energy systems and power supplies, Lieutenant Commander."

"Everyone," he called. "Come over here for a moment. How much specialized training do you all have in weapons and marksmanship? Self defense?"

Bennett glanced around and said, "I took the course in training, the four week course two days a week." The others nodded. Strakotewitz, an ex-police officer, said, "I had regular PT that included self defense. We were also taught how to prevent someone taking your weapon."

Liu chimed in that she had basic training on the long arm version of the EM-31. Most of them had had target shooting experience with air rifles or hand guns. Half of them were rated proficient in only the older personal weaponry. Their focus had been almost entirely on engineering and ship systems weapon design.

Reed was appalled.

"But everyone on the Enterprise had substantial personal weapons training. There were only a few specialists in the sciences that I had to bring up to speed."

Liu and several others looked uncomfortable. "The NX-01 was a picked crew, sir. Wasn't everyone an expert?"

"Just the opposite. Yes, everyone had a basic level of proficiency, but in a variety of disciplines. But the problem is, any one of you might be called up for shipboard duty. This won't do. It won't do at all."

They might end up being put into harm's way. Dying, doing their duty, to save others, to protect their planet and species, to advance knowledge. Or maybe just dying, for no particular reason. Dying for slim meaningless chances that some commanding officer thought were important in a moment's consideration.

Captain Archer had given Trip a brief eulogy that focused on how important he had been to the ship, to the mission, to Archer himself. He did not say that Tucker's life had been exchanged for something important. Sim's death had had more meaning. Reed and Mayweather had closed the coffin once again. Sim had died so silently, stilled; he had looked, literally, as if he were asleep. Phlox had dressed Sim's dead body in a clean Star Fleet uniform; one of the crew, one of them only in his death.

The doctor had done the same for Trip, but when Reed and the security detail had come with the torpedo casing that would serve as a coffin, Phlox had been sitting by Trip's still form as if in a trance. He said he wasn't sure if it would be appropriate to have the coffin open. The Enterprise had had several closed coffin services by that time. He wanted Reed's opinion as a Human and Trip's friend. Phlox said, I can't look any longer, I don't know what I'm looking at, at all. I don't know who I'm looking at, and he had abruptly risen and left Sickbay. So Reed had looked again; the damaged skin, the drawn features, one eye sunken under its lid from some pressure change from the force of the blow that had killed him, thank God, Phlox said the blow had killed him, not the vacuum. And Reed had nearly hyperventilated while they moved Trip's body and then he choked out to Tanner and Nguyen and Myer that the coffin would be opened for the service. Tanner and Myer had looked away from him, saying nothing, as if he were too painful to look at. Nguyen went to a cabinet and pulled out a square of shimmery thin semi-skin Phlox used for burn victims. He had laid it across Trip's dead face, softening, but not hiding the features, and quietly asked Reed if this would not be appropriate. Reed had agreed, full of guilt. He had hoped Archer would look. For a moment, in anger, Reed had hoped that the sight of Trip's dead, injured face might be like the Gorgon's Head. As they carried the coffin to the Armory for the service, Reed had thought with every step, Forgive me, Trip, forgive me, please forgive me for thinking of using you like that.

He looked up at his team's surprised and somewhat shamed faces. Any one of them might be called up for a combat mission going up against the Romulans and hazard their lives. Someone was letting them down. But it wasn't going to be him.

Before the workday ended he had made arrangements for his entire team to be using the firing range in two days' time. When they all came in for work the following day, they found Lieutenant Commander Reed in the work room, five sets of the phase pistols and rifles laying on the tables.

"We're going to set aside the force field tasks for the next few days," he said. "I want to call up the schematics for the newest units. We'll all go over the designs first. Then we'll strip these down and make sure we all understand the functions of the components."

"Are these the standard issue to all the NX class ships?" asked Bennet.

"If any of you were reassigned to the Enterprise, the Columbia, or the Athena today, these are the weapons you would use. These are the designs being put on the Neptune class cruisers as well."

They made a good start on striping, servicing, and rebuilding units. In the days that followed he gave them what he considered the basic fundamentals of the marksmanship, servicing and basic weapons handling under a variety of deployment conditions. He had to justify the time spent away from the force field work. He had to placate his own superiors. His rationale for the review of the weapons' theory, design and maintenance was accepted. The drill and target practice were not.

But he was pleasantly surprised that most of his people were enthusiastic about undergoing training in their off-hours. In the end they had all spent time outside of their working shifts practicing under his instruction. And he was surprised that he found instructing them to be as, well, enjoyable, as it seemed. It's keeping me busy, he thought. It's because they are a very talented group, quick to learn. They seemed to work well together and they seemed to like each other. They often left the firing range together, as a group, after their sessions, going out for drinks or something to eat. It made Reed somehow feel better watching them all together, as if they would take care of each other, and be safe.

At the end of one of their sessions on the firing range, he told them, "You've all done a lot of hard work. Those of you who had some deficiencies have improved. Greatly. I'm not sure there is any further reason for these group sessions, but I'd advise you to keep your certifications up to date." He added quietly, "Now, I think any ship in the Fleet would be glad to have any of you on board in action. You're all very good engineers. But, you can't just be engineers."

This night Bennett asked him to join them. Reed almost said no, but then changed his mind and accepted the invitation. What did he have waiting for him at the apartment? Trip had always liked a drink on special occasions.

They sat and drank. Reed tried to stay at the edge of the group so as not to put too much of a damper on their conversations. Reed was surprised at how pleasant it was to be there. He realized how much he had started to enjoy their company, at least on this level. Before, they had just been faces and names, sets of talents and capabilities. A bit uncomfortable to talk to, like most everyone he had ever worked withâ€”except on the Enterprise.

It was like Hoshi. She had made him nervous, until they had to work closely together, just like this, getting her up to speed on the new weapons. And then she was his friend.

Witlow leaned over and told him, "Sir, my instructor on the EM-31 always made me feel like a fool. But teaching us how the design influences the firing really makes it seem simple."

"Maybe you should find out when he teaches now, and drop in on a class," he said, "You could probably show him a thing or two, Ensign."

And he supposed that some of his junior's nervousness around him had been worn away as well. But it never occurred to Reed that they ever had been afraid of him or afraid of failing him. If anything, he had only been concerned that he would be afraid of them, and do a poor job in the research and in getting the best out of them.

Glancing around at them in the bar, Reed had a sense of satisfaction at how well they all seemed to learn. He supposed that his team were becoming friends of a sort to him, not that he would ever inflict out-of-place familiarity on them. But he didn't want to see them hurt. He didn't want to ever hear that any of them had died in some pointless, foolish action or that they had been unprepared. Like Trip.

They should have all gotten more and better training. There might have been excuses before for failing them. Reed couldn't see that there were any excuses now.

* * *

"Captain Bromhead?"

"Lieutenant Commander, how are you? I got your message."

"I'm fine, thank you. The outline of curriculum you asked me to review for comments a few weeks ago, I want to speak to you about it again, before you meet again with the committee."

"Reed, this is an extremely thorough curriculum you've come up with, but it's greatly in excess of current training."

"But I thought the point of training in the actual academy was to improve over the current situation. And these are just my initial thoughts. I've contacted some officers that I think could really shape this into precisely what we'll need for the cadets,â€”"

"I agree, and I, personally, would support more training. But, I just can't see the curriculum committee approving this amount of time spent on tactical and security studies for all the students."

"Captain, this is very important, especially for the trainees that are destined for command positions. Surely with your supportâ€”"

"I don't think it will fly, Reed. I know this is important to you, but we'd need others supporting this to try to get even the main parts of this into the core curriculum instead of what's been presented so far."

* * *

"No, Reed, this is fantastic. But there is so much there. It would take an entire year, at least, to cover these studies."

"Then it ought to take a year, Commander Wojnar. There are other specialties the Academy is planning to have focus on, engineering in particular."

"Well, I'll support this. But it seems unlikely, even if the committee agrees that we can get it entirely in place by the planned start of the Academy. Butâ€”"

"But what?"

"This would go down smoother if we had someone to buttonhole the committee members. There is so much here on weapon systems and tactical situations, and, well, what with the way the Xindi War ended up, now I'm trying to say what other people are thinkingâ€”this needs to be presented in the right way. There are several members, important people, who want to refocus on sciences, engineering, and diplomacy."

"But, Commander, this is a support to all those areas. How can you engage in diplomacy if you're about to be blown out of space at the next instant? If you haven't a clue how to protect your people in order to engage in diplomacy?"

"You're preaching to the choir, Reed. You've got to show that. An object lesson."

* * *

To: Lt. Cmd. Malcolm Reed, Star Fleet Engineering Directorate, Weapons Research

From: T'Pol, New Day Mining and Natural Resources Extraction, Chinle field office.

M:

I think you must surely be exaggerating the situation. I think it highly unlikely that a majority, or even a minority, of the Star Fleet officer corps believe you to be "barking mad." Your frustration is understandable, but I point out that the influence of a more senior officer, particularly in the command area, could be needed to help get your ideas for academy curriculum examined more favorably. I have suggested Rear Admiral Archer's assistance would not be unhelpful. Your concerns are supported by the facts, but Archer still has personal contacts throughout the highest levels of Starfleet, and you should not hesitate to use them, if Archer is in agreement with your ideas.

T.

* * *

Reed was miserable and intensely frustrated. He had contacted all the members of the Academy curriculum committee and gotten very similar responses. The planned start date for the academy was too close to drastically change the curriculum. His suggestions were laudable, but perhaps too specialized for planned training. Only a few came right out and said that his curriculum looked like Earth was preparing to act as an aggressor throughout their sector. He couldn't get them to see. Or he couldn't get them to see anything but him, a neurotic, twitching cripple.

In his small apartment he tossed a packaged dinner onto the kitchen counter and broke the seals that would start the reaction and heat the meal. He checked his personal COM account while it heated. Reed was surprised to see two incoming messages, both from Alexandria Tucker O'Connell. The first was marked, "Robert O'Connell to Lt. Cmd. Reed." He opened the second message marked, "Mr. Reed, please view this message first." Reed had gotten a brief message from her once before, after he had sent a letter of condolence to Tucker's parents. She had been very kind, very full of grief. Now Trip's older sister appeared to be very flustered.

"Mr. Reed, I'm very sorry to bother you, but I want to apologize for the message my son has sent to you. It wasn't our intention that he bother you with his questions." There was a pause, possibly longer than O'Connell had intended, while she looked as if she were trying to think of how to say something. "Robert's old enough to remember his Uncle Trip and his Aunt too, but I'm afraid, well, some of the things he's heardâ€”he's old enough to understand the criticisms of the Enterprise, and it's made him ask questions. And argue with other kids, and even adults, some of his teachers." She paused again. "At any rate, Mister Reed, I don't want you to feel compelled to answer the message he sent, or even read it, if you don't wish to. I'm sorry to have bothered you."

His hand paused over the command to delete the first message. What was he afraid of? He'd been asked to explain, to respond to difficult questions before. As when Joseph Begay's Scouts had asked him the most piercing questions he could imagine, although without the guile of adults, without the expectation of a response they'd already formulated and deconstructed in light of their own opinions. It had been easier to talk to those boys than the adults Reed had been speaking to in the past week. He pressed the COM from Robert Charles O'Connell open.

He should have known the boy would be a young teenager. That much time had passed. He was blond, but broad and sturdy in a powerful footballer type way, and the accent his mother still had had not caught entirely on himâ€”an Irish lilt hung in his words. He looked pained and angry, and just a bit outraged. Well, Reed knew the feeling.

"Lieutenant Commander Reed, I'm Robert O'Connell and I have to know something. Something about my Uncle Trip, uh, Charles Tucker. My Grandpa says that Captain Archer was his best friend, but I don't think I could ask him about this, because he was the Captain, and Dad says the Captain's orders on a ship are law, and if something was done wrong it's the Captain's fault or else it's someone's head. But I think you'll tell me what really happened. In one of Uncle Trip's letters to Uncle Joe, he said you were a straight shooter and that you didn't tell people what they wanted to hear. You told them what you thought was right. That's why I'm sending this to you.

"Was my Uncle a hero? Or did he do wrong things? Bad things. Sometimes I hear people say the Enterprise 'put a blot by Humanity's name' and that what you all did were war crimes. And sometimes I hear people say all the Xindi had it coming and we shouldn't trust them and we should send a whole fleet to kill all of them. But I don't think my uncle would have done something that wasn't right. And maybe if he did anything bad, he did it because Aunt Elizabeth was dead.

"I can't hardly remember him, or sometimes even Aunt Elizabeth, anymore, not really. Mom and Uncle Joe say he was the best brother anyone could have ever had, and I do remember him taking us fishing and showing me how the scooter engine worked. But. But, Lieutenant Commander Reed, I want to know if I ought to keep trying to remember him."

Reed sat and stared into the screen. The boy had only been seven when they had shipped out, and Reed knew that Trip hadn't visited his family when they came back to Earth. And now this child was forgetting his uncle, just as it seemed that everyone was trying to forget them all.

Trip didn't deserve that: to be forgotten. Reed suddenly realized that he was digging into his fingers with his thumbnailâ€”again. He had started that to try to keep from thinking about Trip. He had tried to forget too. It all had to stop. Had to stop trying to forget.

The COM screen had security-locked, the sky outside was dark, Reed's back was horribly stiff. The clock said he has been staring into this computer screen for two and a half hours. Reed sat up, reopened the screen and wrote a text message back to Robert Charles O'Connell. Robert. I plan to prove your uncle right by telling you the truth. Dying in the course of a war did not make your uncle a hero. But that is not to say that he wasn't a hero. There were many times that your Uncle Trip's actions saved the Enterprise and the lives of all of us on her. I can only imagine that those actions may have saved all of Earth. He did not plan on being a hero. He wanted to explore, to learn new things, to understand and experience. He wanted to do all the great things people have hoped that space travel would bring us. When your Aunt Elizabeth and all those other people were killed, that real plan for the Enterprise had to wait. I cannot tell you that everything we did was fine and noble; it was not. But I can only tell you that we did things because we had to do them at that moment. We were in positions with very few options and most of those options made it very difficult for us to stop the Xindi plan to destroy Earth. I will tell you that no officer on the Enterprise was completely certain of the "right" of our actions all of the time. People on Earth may speak as if they know what we should have done. But I want you to remember that any Human who is dead set on a righteous cause, with no doubts, well, that person is only one step away from becoming a monster. One step away from doing horrible things. We did the best we could. Your uncle did the best he could. He was a fine man, and was, to me, a hero. Your Uncle Trip loved you and your mother and uncle. He went to keep any harm from coming to you. I think your uncle and mother are right. He was the best brother that anyone could have ever had. He deserves to be remembered. By you and by me. Very sincerely yours, Malcolm T. Reed.

Trip did deserve to be remembered. And they, the crew of the Enterprise, had not deserved to be forced into a situation with only bad options. T'Pol was right. As loathe as Reed was to accept the help she suggested, he had just seen why he had to get that get that help. And he thought he had just seen how to get it.


	8. Part 7

> I measure every Grief I meet  
> With narrow, probing, Eyesâ€”  
> I wonder if It weighs like Mineâ€”  
> Or has an Easier size.
> 
> ...
> 
> I note that Someâ€”gone patient longâ€”  
> At length, renew their smileâ€”  
> An imitation of a Light  
> That has so little Oilâ€”
> 
> I wonder if when Years have piledâ€”  
> Some Thousandsâ€”on the Harmâ€”  
> That hurt them earlyâ€”such a lapse  
> Could give them any Balmâ€”

Reed had not made an appointment, but took the chance and headed for Archer's office at a time that had been blank on his former captain's public schedule. Better to see him personally. Equally by chance he saw Jonathan Archer heading out the building, carrying a small bag in one hand.

"Admiral Archer," Reed called out, "Sir!"

Archer turned scanning for the voice and smiled as Reed approached him. "Malcolm," he said, "It's good to see you again." And he looked as if he did think that it was good. Reed tried to hide the mental wince that he felt sure this body must be showing. Archer had, almost from the very beginning, called most of his crew by their first names. Only a few of the older personnel escaped this familiarity.

"How are you?" Archer asked, and Reed managed what he hoped was a fairly natural sounding, "Well, sir. And you?"

"Fine, fine," he answered. "Except that I feel like I've left something back on Andoria. I think I'm getting too old for this much travel. What brings you over on this side of the campus?"

"Admiral, I wanted to speak to you about the information I forwarded to you. The proposal for a portion of the new academy curriculum."

Archer nodded, but seemed preoccupied. "Yes, yes. I skimmed through it, Malcolm. You're looking for some support to try to change the training. I'd like to talk but, there's someone I have to see. We'll have to...ah, can you come with me? I'm going over to the Convalescent Center."

"Starfleet Medical, sir?"

"Yes." Now Archer looked decidedly less tentative. "Yes. Yes, why don't you come with me? Yes, that would be fine. We can talk on the way." And Reed followed Archer in the direction he had turned to.

Archer continued, "I'm sure Jim Hayes would like to have another visitor."

Reed stopped abruptly. "Major Hayes?" he said, dubiously. "I'm not sure that's such a good idea, sir. You remember how he always reacted to me, then, after..."

"Malcolm," Archer chided, as if this were only a minor problem. "That was two years ago. Jim is much better these days. His wife and son have even come to visit him lately."

Reed cautiously followed Archer and caught up to him walking. Reed had not seen Major Hayes since he had gone off the Enterprise at Jupiter station with the other casualties. Chang had gone with him to get him to go easily. Reed had not said good-bye. It would have been hard on both of them, and Chang had had his hands full as it was.

Reed came back to his purpose as they walked. "Admiral, I feel these suggested courses and training modules would have a great deal of support if they were presented correctly. They're the result of more than my advisementâ€”"

"Yes," interrupted Archer, "I saw the list of names you included as contributors. A lot of good peopleâ€”Starfleet and the military. The problem is that we may need to be giving more consideration to presenting a more open and 'positive' stance in our exploration. Not every species are the Xindi. Not everyone we meet will be an aggressor, ready to attack us without provocation, or because of ignorance or a mistaken impression of us."

Reed had told himself before that he had to remain calm and logical, and as friendly as possible. But how could a man who had seen what Archer had remain as stubbornly naive? "But Admiral, we can't determine how another species will react to us on a first contact. Sir, an 'open' and 'positive' stance results from the confidence that familiarity with tactics and security produces. It isn't that we're hiding anything; it's that we're prepared to handle anything. I'm sure General Shran would find that to be a familiar and comfortable stance."

Archer smiled and gave Reed an appreciative glance. "I'm sure you're right in that. The Andorians consider a good offense to be the best defense."

"It's served them well, sir."

"But we're Human, not Andorian. We've got other moreâ€”recentâ€”considerations."

"With respect, sir, it's because we were forced into an untenable position that we had to make the choicesâ€”hard choicesâ€”that were made." Reed thought, choices you made, Captain Archer, some good, some desperate, some utterly wasteful. "We ought to give the academy graduates the best possible foundation, the widest latitude to find the best solutions possible in missions of exploration. That's what a heightened training in tactical advantage could bring." Reed suddenly realized the strain of emotion coming into his voice.

Archer stopped and turned. He had that sympathetic, yet somehow condescending, look on his face. "You really have your heart set on this, don't you, Malcolm?" Archer reached out with his free hand and placed it on Reed's upper arm. "I know the mission into Xindi space was hard for you. It was hard for all of us, but I'll always regret what happened to you down there on the Hive World."

It wasn't as hard for me as it was for others, Reed thought, trying not to flinch under Archer's hand. Dammit, what was the matter with the man that he couldn't see? When Archer had saved him out in the Romulan minefield Reed had been doped to the gills to allow him to function, and had foolishly revealed all sorts of personal information he never would have normally shared with Archer. Ever since then his commanding officer had somehow felt free, felt, what? Obligated to try to comfort him. It had happened several times with these damn little touches. The worst was when they were both still suffering the immediate aftereffects of the Loquek virus. And Archer's touch, "something" rolling off him had done nothing but send a silent alarm into Reed of "cower, hide, placate, fear." Phlox had speculated that some sort of pheromones had affected the three of them, made them act out some level of "pack" behavior. The thought was sickening to Reed. He was glad that the whole episode was as dim and insubstantial in his memory as it was.

But he still remembered pacing the decon chamber, and a voice, a strange, alien voice, trying to speak to him. Trip had told him later that it had been him. "Damn, I'm glad you're okay now!" Trip had said. And Reed had thought at the time, I'm glad you saved us.

Reed focused back to Archer, repeating a variation of one of the many possible phrases he'd gone over ahead of time, "I wished it hadn't happened, sir, but surely you want those who follow you to be able to respond as well as you did, and better, to the dangers they'll face?"

Archer let go of him and they continued to walk. It was in late fall, but only slightly damp, and still pleasant enough to be out in shirtsleeves.

"So, you and Captain Bromhead think a year's worth of training in place of the current plans is the best course?"

"At this point, yes sir," said Reed, his hopes racing.

Archer fell silent. They had reached the big research hospital of Starfleet Medical. The Convalescent Center was on the grounds. They passed through a security gate, into an interior courtyard. There was a staff member there who obviously recognized Archer. Her face fell and became guarded. But she responded to Archer's hello, saying, "Yes, Admiral Archer. Tuesday. I think Jimmy is out in the garden waiting for you now." Reed's apprehension was high. He recognized the Major immediately among the figures out in the garden, but more for what Hayes wasn't anymore than what he was. Hayes wasn't confident, still, mature. Hayes wasn't someone Reed might have ever been envious of, someone Reed might have worried might take his place, professionally.

Hayes was sitting on the edge of a stone wall, sort of a planter, with riotous colorful flowers and shrubs behind him. The wall was high enough that his feet did not touch the ground, and he idly swung his legs and drummed his heels against the stones. He ducked his head slightly and repeatedly, and carefully watched the other patients, doctors, aides, and visitors, his mouth hanging open a bit. It looked like the scar tissue at the back of his neck and head had been removed. Hair was growing there normally, but had come in white, giving him an odd bicolor look.

Hayes saw Archer from across the courtyard, and his face lit up in joyous, childish happiness. He jumped down from the wall and ran toward them. Reed flinched when those eyes caught hold on him, and Hayes jerked to a stop about three meters away from them. Hayes half turned as if he were going to run, and a frightened, cringing shiver ran through him.

Archer slowly advanced, "It's all right, Jim."

"Hello, Major Hayes," Reed said.

Hayes slowly raised a trembling hand and pointed at Reed. "You were there," he said, "You were there when they caught us."

Archer stood between them, but close to Hayes. "Now, Jim, it's okay. Malcolm has just come to visit you."

"They caught us," Hayes whimpered, "They caught us and hurt us."

Archer continued in a soothing, low voice, "Yes, it was really bad there. But, Jim, what did Malcolm tell you, hmm? What did Malcolm say?"

Hayes stood still. He looked at Archer and cautiously said, "Lieutenant Reed said, someone would come and get us. Someone would come and take us back to the ship."

"That's right," Archer said, nodding encouragingly to Reed.

"Yes," Reed said, "Major, I told you that Sergeant Chang and the others would come and find us."

Reed had said that, anything to quiet the frightened wails Hayes had let out in his pain and fear. Reed would have told Hayes anything to keep the level of hysteria in himself at low ebb. He had known that his own people and the other MACOs would certainly want to mount a rescue, but he had not known if it was remotely possible. He had desperately hoped that Archer wouldn't throw anyone else to their deaths if there was no chance of getting them back.

"See," said Archer, smiling at Hayes. "See? Malcolm was right, wasn't he? T'Pol and the others came, didn't they?"

Hayes started to smile a little bit, and visibly relaxed. "Yeah, he was right. You were right. They came and got us. We even brought Marino back, too."

Reed smiled uneasily at Hayes. This might have been me, he thought. Poor bastard. Cole had insisted on retrieving Marino's body. Hayes had been horribly frightened by the corpse when he had first seen it. But he had abruptly stopped screaming when Chang had pleaded, Be quiet or the Xindi will come back. That had stopped him. Stopped him so completely that it had taken Phlox and the MACOs two days after their return to the ship to get the Major to speak again.

Now that Hayes's fears had suddenly abated, he turned to Archer. "Did you bring me something today? Something good?"

"Yes," Archer said, bringing up the bag. "I found some nice, ripe pears."

Hayes eagerly took the package, licking his lips, and immediately took out and bit into one of the pears, making loud, appreciative noises and rocking slightly on his feet as he took big juicy bites. After momentarily ignoring Archer and Reed, he looked up, a bit shamed faced. "Let's go sit down," he said, and reached out with a sticky hand and grabbed Archer by one wrist and tugged him over to a bench.

Reed followed, noting how Archer went along with Hayes' impulsive actions. When Hayes had finished the first pear, he reached for another, and Archer gently suggested he save it for later. "You'll get a stomachache if you eat too much at once," Archer said. And then he listened carefully as Hayes began a rambling description of the things he'd done since the Archer's last visit.

"They say I'm getting better at the anger thing. We pretend to get angry and then we think of the things to stop us getting angry." Hayes abruptly turned to Reed. "I have no inhibitions," he said loudly and brightly, a bit like an eight year old might say, I have a red bicycle. And Reed nodded, as if it were news to him.

Phlox had said that the Major's intelligence had not really been diminished by the brain damage, but that parts of the brain that controlled judgment and inhibition were simply gone. Overnight he had gone from being a man with supreme control to a lad with almost none. A boy who was just under two meters tall, who could drop you with a few kicks or punches, and who was knowledgeable enough to operate complex weapons. They hadn't been able to leave him alone for a moment on Enterprise, except at night, when Phlox gave him sedatives to keep him sleeping. Phlox had stopped prescribing alternative therapies.

Archer now asked, "Did you see your wife and Paul this week?"

Hayes suddenly went pale and then his face fell, the mouth turning down, his eyes squeezing shut. He began to weep with great heaving sobs. Reed felt horribly embarrassed to see the Major in this state, but he took his cue from Archer and sat still, waiting. When the tears finally slowed a little, Hayes was able to choke out, "We were playing, and Paul did something dumb. I got mad at him, and yelled at him, and he was scared of me." And Hayes began to cry again.

Archer turned to Reed and said, "Paul is Jim's sonâ€”"

"He's only six," Hayes interrupted, tears still tracking down his face, "he doesn't understand. Maybe Roberta won't bring him back any more."

This was almost more than Reed felt he could take. Everywhere he looked, everywhere he thought, from the scars on his own body when he looked into the mirror in the morning, to the lists of casualties in the news casts, to Major Hayes acting out a cruel parody of himself with the shards of personality he had left, everything was twisted and wasted and wrong. Reed again was moved to say almost anything to Hayes, just to stop this flow of fear.

"Major Hayes, I'm sure your wife will explain it to him. I'm sure he's a very bright boy, and he'll understand."

Hayes gulped and nodded, and then catching sight of something, he suddenly reached across Archer and grabbed Reed's left hand. The Major's grip was as strong as ever. The tears were stopping; something new had attracted his attention.

Hayes gripped Reed's hand. "You ought to stop doing this," he said, "it won't help if you have to keep on doing it."

"Doing what?" asked Archer.

"The exercise," Hayes said. "The exercise with your fingers and thumb." He curiously examined Reed's hand. "I bet you think about him all the time, don't you?"

Reed just starred at Hayes. Yes. Of course, it had been Hayes. Now he remembered. In some strange way he had let Hayes share a tiny bit of his grief, years before, by merely admitting to him that he had needed help. Hayes had been a practical man and had offered him a practical solution. It hadn't worked completely, or for very long, but there it was.

"What are you talking about?" said Archer.

Reed pulled his hand back and said to Hayes, "Yes, it doesn't work anymore," and acknowledging Archer again, "Something the Major taught me, years ago, on the Enterprise. Just something. "

"Oh, right," said Hayes mischievously, "Yeah. A secret. Not for the CO. It might make him worry. Like when we fought. God, that hurt when you kicked me. But I got you back. Your face looked like crap for days." And he laughed.

Reed suddenly smiled and nodded, "Yes, you got me back. That was a stupid fight, wasn't it?"

"You were being a real asshole," said Hayes. "But I'd been sneaky. I wanted to really show you guys up. Make you pay attention to us."

"I know," said Reed. "I was an arse. And you were a sneak."

Then he asked Hayes, "Major? Is there anywhere around here where we could get something to drink?"

"Oh, there's a coffee mess, just inside."

"Would you go get us some coffee?"

Catching Reed's drift, Archer nodded. And Hayes jumped up and ran off.

Archer said, "See, I told you it would be fine. He's less afraid now."

"You visit him regularly, sir?"

"Yes," Archer looked at the ground for a moment. "I owe it to him."

Reed thought, the tip of the iceberg. He said, "It's something you can repay. The Major can use your help; he's still here. There are people we can't help anymore. The crew we lost in the Expanse."

Please, he thought, agree with me.

Archer nodded. He said, "You shouldn't feel guilty, Malcolm. You did your best, we all did."

Reed bit down on his anger and outrage. Don't bugger this up, he thought. Don't get angry.

"But sir, the crews and officers that are coming after us, don't they deserve to learn from our mistakes?"

"Your curriculum? For the new Academy?"

"Yes, sir."

"It's a large set of coursework and drill. Practically a school by itself."

"There's going to be a school of Engineering. Why not one for Tactical Studies?"

"A school for warfare?" Archer said incredulously.

"For avoiding it, sir. And if unavoidable, for dealing with it in the quickest, most appropriate way, so the real mission of Starfleet can go on. This is the set of skills that can support the real mission: exploration. You can make this happen, sir. People will listen to you. You've commanded; if you say this would have made your job easier, more effective, with fewer lives lostâ€”"

"I understand." Archer said, sighing heavily. "I'm just not sure, it's a tremendous undertaking."

"Don't you think we owe it to them, sir? To the friends we've lost? This 'school,' if that is the best way to present these courses, it's for them. The people who wanted to explore. And who had trained to be explorers, but had to fight a war instead. This can be a memorial to them."

Archer was thinking. He was still with Reed.

"Sir, who? Who among those we lost on the Enterprise; who had the greatest love of exploration? Who joined for that reason? Who was the most amazed and full of wonder? Who wanted to make your father's engine take us out, out to explore the stars?"

Archer had a moist look in his eyes. Reed steeled himself for the inevitable hand on his shoulder.

Archer said, "I know you miss Trip, too, Malcolm. I know you feel guilty about that ship getting away, but you shouldn't. You did everything you could."

Everything short of mutiny, Reed thought. Everything short of throwing you in the brig and keeping Trip off that ship. I can't do this, Reed thought, his head hanging, not looking at Archer now. He wanted to do nothing so much as grab that hand off his shoulder and break every bone in it.

Finally, Reed looked back to Archer. He spoke softly, and he could hear his voice shake a bit and he tried to keep his anger out of it. "Admiral Archer, I know he was your best friend." Just keep going, Reed thought, tell Archer what he needs to hear. "What Trip wanted to doâ€”explorationâ€”it needn't be put aside or forgotten in either an effort to improve our defenses or our diplomatic skills. Trip shouldn't be forgotten. Tactical Studies aren't 'for' the tacticians, in command or in security. They are for the explorers. You want us to explore. This will let Humanity do just that. And a school would be a practical, undying memorial to those that we lost."

"A memorial for Trip?" Archer furrowed his brow. His tone was serious, questioning, but somehow, positive. "Malcolm," he said, "the exact curriculum, that will take experts, but do you think I could convince the committee?"

"Sir," Reed said, alight with expectation, "with your advocacy and the support of the specialists I've already collaborated with, I know this line of study can be added to the training in some way. Maybe not by the opening of the Academy, but within a few years."

"The Tucker School," Archer mused aloud.

"To support the dreams of exploration," Reed pressed.

Reed could imagine Archer, asking for better security and tactical training, asking for improvements, asking for lessons to be learned. The object lesson personified. He didn't care what Archer thought. He didn't care if Archer wanted to believe that he had been the best possible man for the job. If Reed and Bromhead and Wojnar could get this training begun, none of the rest would matter.

Suddenly Hayes came running up, slopping coffee everywhere from the three cups he was gripping together.

"Hey, hey!" he shouted. "Something's happened! Something with the war!"

Reed saw that people were rushing into the building entrance. The three of them hurried to join the crowd. The entryway was packed, but somewhere just out of sight there was a monitor of some kind, and the volume was turned up on a news broadcast.

"...USS Columbia and the cruisers Baltic and Caspian are in a 'stand-down' condition at the edge of the disputed border, fourteen light-years out from Andorian space. USS Enterprise and a battle group of frigates and support vessels are behind the lines, along with light cruisers from Andor. The Baltic, commanded by Captain Saad Jabr, reported approximately four hours ago, just received by Echo, that a ceasefire has been negotiated with the Romulan fleetâ€”"

The crowd erupted in excited conversation. As the broadcast continued, it was revealed that a ceasefire had been announced and verified by other Earth ships, as well as independent Tellarite merchant vessels that appeared to have been mysteriously in the area. It was the first ceasefire in the three-year-old conflict.

Eventually it was obvious that any other news would be slow in coming, and the crowd began to disperse. Back outside, Hayes could hardly contain his excitement and ran to other patients and staff to speak to them.

Archer had a look of happy satisfaction as he said to Reed, "Perhaps the days of exploration are going to be back sooner than we thought, Malcolm."

"I hope so, sir, but it's going to take a lot, I'd imagine, to get to the end of this war. I find it hard to imagine real peace with an alien species who've apparently destroyed every ship that's come into their hands, and self-destruct rather than be taken prisoner."

"Malcolm," said Archer, shaking his head, "you've got to learn to have some level of trust. Butâ€”" he cocked his head, "perhaps it's best not to get our hopes up." He let out a sigh, "I wish I was out there instead of Greenberg."

I'm terribly glad you're not, thought Reed. But on a certain level he commiserated with Archer. Reed wished he was there, too. He hoped that this was a good sign. He hoped Travis and Hoshi were all right.

Turning to Archer, he said, "But we have things to do here, sir." And he held his breath waiting for Archer's answer.

Archer squared his shoulders and said, "Yes, you're right. The Tucker School. How do we get started?"

A fire, a bright blazing fire was in his heart as Reed answered, "I suggest you meet, very soon, with Captain Bromhead and myself. And ex-committee meeting of the curriculum group just as soon as we can arrange one."

Archer said his good-bye to Hayes, but as he and Reed began to leave the courtyard, Hayes called out, "Lieutenant! Lieutenant Reed! I want to talk to you." And Archer went ahead.

"What is it, Major?" Reed asked.

Hayes earnestly asked, "Will you come back and see me, again?"

Reed was surprised. "Well, ah, I could, Major. Is there something you want? Something you need here?"

"No," said Hayes in a small pitiful voice. "It's just. It's just. You're the only one who's called me 'Major' in a long time. Everyone here calls me 'Jim,' or even 'Jimmy.' I hate that. They all treat me like a little kid." Tears had started in Hayes' eyes, and there was a catch in his voice.

Reed heard himself saying, "I wouldn't treat you like a child. You don't deserve that."

Hayes sniffed loudly. He smiled at Reed and said, "Maybe if you come back we can talk about the war; what's going on. We can talk about the force field work you do."

It was hard to keep in mind that Hayes hadn't lost the knowledge he'd gained over his life, just the judgment. Reed said, "I will come back and visit, but I don't think I can do it very often."

"We can talk about the Enterprise," continued Hayes, headlong and chattering. "We can talk about the people we knew, we can talk about what happened. The doctors here, they don't want me to talk about it; they just think I get all upset. It's like they want me to forget everything, just because some of it's bad. That's stupid." And a worried, fretful look came over Hayes. "Do you think that's stupid?"

Reed was silent for a moment, and then said, "No, Major, I think you're right. There were good things, too." I don't want to forget them, Reed thought. Even if it hurts, I don't want to forget.

* * *

It appeared that the ceasefire would hold, and a few days later Ensign Liu decided it was a good enough reason for a party, and set one up in a public park one evening after work. Reed had not planned on going, but after exercising at the gym, he turned in the direction away from his apartment and toward the place. As he approached the block of trees and lawns it was getting dark and there was just a touch of chill.

He heard the sounds of laughter, and could see the silhouettes of his co-workers surrounding a small glow. This park allowed open flames most of the year in special fire pits. They were gathered around one now.

Reed paused. Perhaps he shouldn't intrude. He had told Liu that he wouldn't attend. He was very busy, arranging for the ex-committee meeting of the Academy Curriculum group. Archer had agreed to most of the details Reed and Wojnar had stressed. Reed was worried, but he had a good feeling about the effortâ€”the first good feelings about it he had had since he had started this endeavor. He couldn't let Trip down. It was too important.

A party seemed so frivolous. He had work to do. When he was busy, things didn't hurt so bad.

Crewmen Bennet and Witlow came up on him in the dark. "Lieutenant Commander," Bennet cried out, "I'm glad you came."

Reed stammered a greeting and before he could say that, no, he wasn't coming to the party, he'd taken a bowl of something fruit-smelling from her as she awkwardly balanced it and a small cooler. The people at the fire heard their voices, and called out to them.

"Come on! Everyone is here."

Reed found himself following the women, coming into the glow. It wasn't the same. Maybe it would never be the same. The other hearths were not as cheering. The fires were not as bright. But Reed thought that Trip would have busted him down to a second class crewman if he'd just stayed out in the dark and frozen to death. Maybe, slowly, Reed felt he might be able to get warm at these other, lesser, hearths. The light of the fire still seemed a very long distance ahead of him.

And he had work to do. Maybe making some light for someone else. Reed didn't think he could ever do as good a job at it as Trip had done. But maybe he could try. There were a lot of people freezing out in the dark. He should try to help them.


	9. Part 8

> Because I could not stop for Deathâ€”  
> He kindly stopped for meâ€”  
> The Carriage held but just Ourselvesâ€”  
> And Immortality.
> 
> We slowly droveâ€”He knew no haste  
> And I had put away  
> My labor and my leisure too,  
> For His Civilityâ€”

He'd been shocked when one of the graduate assistants of Tactical School had told him his errand and handed him the key to borrow one of the academy's vehicles. He was in his third year at Starfleet Academy, but only his first in the tactical and security courses. It was not his graduation from Tactical School. Although he would attend, helping to host the various guests.

"Don't be so shocked, Robert," Ensign El Sadr had said. "You do know him. I hope you can be trusted to pick up The Commandant for the ceremony."

As he'd piloted the car, he considered that he'd spoken with The Commandant twice. No, that was wrong. The Commandant had spoken to him twice, and he'd responded once.

The response had been, "I was looking at his hands, sir," and Robert had been trying hard to catch his breath after he'd been knocked down by a kick. He'd also been trying not to gape like a fool at the old man who had suddenly appeared on the edge of the exercise mat and given him a hand up. He had asked Robert, "Now what were you looking at when he kicked you?" Then the white-headed man in the out-of-date uniform had asked the instructor if she wouldn't mind reviewing a certain point with the students. They seemed to be missing it, and there wasn't any reason to let them mangle themselves trying to find it.

The first time had been on the firing range. He'd been shaking his hand to work out the numb spot from the laser rifle's vibration, along with several other cadets. And suddenly he'd heard, "A firm grip is best, cadets. You should have felt the buzz the old phase pistols would give you," and he'd twisted his head to see the slight, stooped figure next to them, examining the scores. "Keep at it," he'd said, suddenly looking to him, "that's a real improvement over last week. You were having trouble then."

Robert had been too astonished to say anything at all. Once the old man had turned to another student, a fellow cadet had whispered into his ear, "Hey, Bob. A fly'll get in there."

The cadet pulled the air car into the landing bay on the roof of the apartment building. It was an old building, but it had had some major renovation; it had an asymmetrical look about it. Robert looked into the side mirror of the car before he left it and smoothed down his dark blond hair, the bit that always stuck up a bit. He was earlier than he'd been told to arrive, but he hadn't wanted to be late, not today. He'd even walked across the campus the night before and checked the location of the building again.

The young man was now at the correct apartment. He checked his watch again. No, he'd cooled his heels enough, not early. He re-checked the screen at the door jamb, the glowing letters, "M.T. Reed." Straightening again, the cadet tapped the chime.

He was a bit surprised when Commander Reed answered the door wearing a dark, warm-looking dressing gown, his white hair bristled up from a shower. The retired officer immediately asked him, "Do you know how to cook eggs?" He'd turned without waiting for an answer and walked away from the door. The elderly man suddenly looked back and said, "Come now. The porridge wants stirring."

He rushed inside, closing the door behind him, and followed the Commandant through a briefly glimpsed living room and into a small kitchen, just big enough to have a small table and chair set in addition to the appliances. He quickly sidestepped to avoid a long tailed cat that darted out the door. The old man handed him a long-handled spoon and gestured to a slowly bubbling pot on the stove. Robert started stirring as Commander Reed pulled out plates, bowls, and utensils for two.

"You'll have breakfast," the Commander said, and before Robert could say that he'd already had coffee for breakfast, he went on, "I was the same at your age. Ate anything that came to hand, but never breakfast. Don't worry, there's plenty of time. The graduates always send you cadets over early enough to dress me if you had to. Quite silly, really. Do you drink tea?"

Robert gave a stunned, jerking nod and realized that an electric kettle had started to scream. The stooped old man at his side put loose, dried black leaves into a teapot and added the boiling water. Robert suddenly realized that it was actually tea. He'd never seen it made that way. How were they going to drink it?

Reed carried the pot to the table, gestured to a pan, eggs, and a bowl on the counter and said, "You can fix a scramble? Yes, of course you can. All students can fix eggs. One of these days, probably not. They say resequencers will get so cheap we'll have them in our homes one day." He made a disgusted sound in his throat and then gingerly left the room, limping a bit.

Wow. Robert tried to get his thoughts in order. He'd found it overwhelming to consider driving Commander Reed to the ceremony, and now he was trying to fix the man breakfast. It was a bit mesmerizing to listen to that clipped, thin, old voice, to stand next to one of the crew of the first warp five starships, to consider all that the thin old man had done. Damn, the oatmeal. Robert stirred it briskly and set the heat at the lowest setting.

As he whisked the eggs, Robert looked around. It was a plainly decorated but nice room, the walls a warm tan and blue curtains in the window. He knew the Commander lived alone, but there was every sign of someone who cooked a bit. He hunted among the spices and herbs in little canisters on a shelf and found some thyme. Thyme was good in eggsâ€”he'd just use a bit. He didn't recognize a lot of the spices. He opened one marked "mace" and caught a subtle, tropical smell. He glanced behind him and put it back.

Robert was just getting the eggs on the plates when Reed returned. In a dress uniform, but of the same ancient vintage as the plain one the cadet had seen the man in before at the school.

"Sit," he was told, and the young man first set the plates at the table and brought the flatware along, too. Napkins, teacups, a small pitcher of milk and whatâ€”a strainer?â€”were already there. The old man set a bowl of the odd pulverized oatmeal in front of him, before sitting down himself, and then poured the tea through the strainer and into their cups. Oh, that was what it was for. The cat came back into the room, and idly began to wrap itself around Robert's leg.

"Rasha," the Commander warned in a threatening tone, and the cat let out a querulous yowl before scampering away.

"Now, Mister April," Commander Reed said, looking at the cadet carefully for what seemed the first time, "it's your older sister that was here before you? Or was it an aunt? Janet? Jane?"

"Judith. Judith April. Aunt Judy," Robert said with a start, "My dad's younger sisterâ€”sir." He hadn't realized that The Commandant even remembered him. He wondered if Ensign El Sadr had told Commander Reed which cadet would fly him to the school.

"Is she still in service?" asked the Commandant. "She was first stationed on the Neutral Zone patrol, the Atlas." He might be ancient, Robert thought, but his memory was pretty damned impressive.

Robert noticed that the Commandant's right hand shook as he carefully pushed egg onto the back of his fork with his knife. He had excellent table manners, though, Robert thought, suddenly remembering all the times his own father had told him to keep his elbows off the table or avoid a "chimp" grip on his fork. He skittishly repositioned his arms. Forearm, okay; elbow, bad.

"She's stationed on the Andor posting now, sir."

The Commander commented on the Andorians he'd worked with in weapons research. And, of course, Robert realized, he'd been one of the first Humans to meet Andorians. It was hard to believe, that this small, wrinkled-up man had done what he'd done and known who he had known.

Robert tried to mind his manners, but he couldn't help but look around a bit. There was a photoPADD mounted on the wall, slowly fading in and out on programmed photos. They mostly seemed to be rather old pictures of Commander Reed with various children and teenagers, and more recent pictures, too, again with young people. Mostly doing things with young people: in hiking clothes, sitting on some rocks; bending over a dissected console, electronic modules everywhere. One photo was almost comical, a very young-looking blond girl, hefting a laser rifle half as tall as she was, and The Commandant, still dark-haired, holding up a target film, the center burned neatly away and the rest untouched.

He realized that he must have made a noise, perhaps a stifled giggle, and nervously shifted his eyes to Commander Reed, who was watching him with a bit of amusement. His eyes were very sharp and bright in his deeply lined face.

"I'm sorry, sir. Nosy." And he coughed.

"No, not a bit of it. I wouldn't sit you down in here if I didn't mind you seeing myâ€”memories. She wanted to learn how to shoot," said the Commander, sipping his tea. "And her parents asked if I would give her some lessons. That's Elizabeth Tucker. Graduated from the Academy, oh, twelve years after that picture was taken. Class of '75, I believe."

Robert April's eyes widened. "Tucker? Commander Tucker's..." he faded off. No, it couldn't be a child of his, could it?

"His niece," Commander Reed supplied. "Commander Tucker's family...very good people. Very kind to me. Elizabeth retired two, no, three years ago. She isn't an engineer, though."

Did he look a little sad? Robert supposed he did. The photo changed again, and the old man seemed to brighten.

"Now those are my nephews, and my sister. We were camping in New Zealand. Some of these pictures are positively ancient. The ones programmed on this PADD are mostly family pictures." As they ate, he explained more of them. Most of the photos were of various relatives of Commander Charles Tucker. Yes, I guess the stories were true, the cadet thought. They must have been real pals. Had they grown up together? Robert couldn't quite remember.

They finished eating, and Robert quickly bused the table before The Commandant could begin to do it, putting the dishes into the small cleaning unit under the sink. Commander Reed took a canister out of a cabinet and mixed some sort of vile-looking drink at the counter. Again, he carefully moved out of the room, saying, "I'll be right with you."

April was quickly finished and quietly stood in the living room, waiting for Commander Reed to come from out of the back. He checked his watch; they still had plenty of time.

The living room was smallâ€”the whole place was smallâ€”but nice-looking. Two dark upholstered arm chairs, contrasting with light brown walls and stained woodlook trim. There were some antique guns on the walls. At least they looked like antiques. Built-in shelves, with some real books; several different-sized PADDs and a large data storage case. It all kind of seemed right, like an old ship captain's house.

He must sit here and think deep thoughts, April mused. Big ideas about history and technology, how Starfleet ought to do things. He was a very important man. It's neat that I've met him.

There was a selection of photos on one of the shelves. One maybe twenty years back, the Commandant looking much less weary and lined, with two officers, a man and a woman, in more modern Starfleet dress uniforms. The Commandant must have been officially retired by then. Oh, that was Captain, oh, his aunt had told him, Captainâ€”Mayweather. He was retired now, long back. April didn't know who the woman was. She was ethnic-asian, still handsome, wore a Commander's rank, and a diplomatic corps badge. They all looked very happy together. There was a fairly recent photo of Commander Reed and a somewhat younger woman, a candid photo; they didn't look like they had seen the photographer. They were on a patio somewhere out inâ€”the desert? The plants looked like desert plants. Hmm. Oh, she was Vulcan! They were sitting close together, the Vulcan was leaning up against the Commanderâ€”it looked like they were talking. Wasn't there a female Vulcan on the first NX-01 voyage? There was also a small photo of a woman in a commander's uniform standing in front of a warp core; one of the Warp Sevens, he thought, introduced about twenty years ago. He stepped closer to look at it. On a lighter portion of the print, a woman's hand had written, "thank you."

The last photo was very old. It was one of two early Starfleet officers, both in engineering. From the engine room structures it must be from the NX-01. One was Commander Charles Tucker, butâ€”well, it wasn't like the service photo April had seen before. He looked like he had been laughing. He eyes were happily squinted up and he had a big, friendly grin on his face. But Tucker hadn't been looking at the photographer, he'd been looking at the shorter, whip-cord man at his side. The Commandant had been a Lieutenant then. They were standing close together facing forward, Reed looking very seriously at the photographer, and Tucker looking fondly at Reed.

April heard a muffled sound, like something falling on the floor and then a clatter. He turned and swiftly crossed the room. "Sir?" he said in a worried tone.

Commander Reed was leaning against the sink near the doorway of the open bathroom. The plastic tumbler was still rolling across the floor, out into the small hallway. Orange liquid was splattered at the Commander's feet.

"Are you all right, sir?" said April, thinking of all the possible things that might be wrong, anyone of them capable of striking the old man down right in front of him.

The Commander looked up, a bit startled, as if he hadn't expected to see anyone there. No. As if he didn't know who April was. But then he levered himself upright.

"I'm sorry...Mister April. Dropped the cup. Sorry..." and he started to stoop down.

"No. No, sir, let me help," Robert said. He tentatively put a hand under Commander Reed's arm, and the old man leaned against him and carefully let himself be guided out and into the living room.

"It's all right," Reed said, "Just a bit unsteady this morning." And he sat down in one of the armchairs. The cat immediately leaped into his lap, and the old man's shaking hands wrapped around it.

Robert wasn't sure exactly what to do. "Sir? Do you need a doctor, Commander?" he finally asked.

The thin, dry voice was a bit more clipped and just a bit on edge. "Good Lord, no. I'm ninety years old. One day you'll know what it's like when all the gears don't mesh quite so well, cadet." And then in a softer, hesitant tone, "No, I'm fine. Would, would you get me another glass of the vitamins." As Robert rushed into the kitchen, Commander Reed said after him, "Two scoops of the bilgeâ€”in water."

April nervously mixed up the drink from the canister, glancing as Reed watched him, rather intently, through the kitchen doorway. When the cadet brought the tumbler to the officer, Reed was leaning back and looking up at the photographs on the shelf, one hand petting the sleek cat perched on his right leg. He said nothing when he took the drink, April fumbling a bit, putting it into his hand. But when April went into the bathroom and was heard cleaning up the spill, Reed called out, "Thank you."

April felt nervous and embarrassed. He was acting like a jumpy idiot. The Commandant had looked at him so, he didn't know, like maybe he was trying to decide something. Probably trying to decide to tell his instructors that he was a jerk. He put the soiled towel into a hamper and washed his hands, smoothing down his hair with his wet hands, trying to part it correctly using the mirror. Here was a chance to speak to someone who had practically seen it all, the whole history of the Academy and a huge chunk of everything important since the founding of the Federation, and all April could do was worry that the Commander might get mad at him, or criticize his table manners, or suddenly take it into his head to die, maybe. Get a grip, he told himself, looking into the mirror.

April nervously stood in the living room, but Reed motioned him to the other chair. The elderly man slowly sipped the drink and again looked at the photos. When he glanced back to April, the cadet, who'd been trying to think of something useful to say, blurted out, "This is a nice apartment, sir. My grandparents have some chairs like these."

He immediately grimaced. Not the thing to say. Fool. Fool.

But Reed smiled at him, finally looking a bit more lively. "Mister April," he said, "I'm the last one to be giving you any advice about this, but please try to relax. The officers around you, by and large, aren't just waiting for an opportunity to find a fault in you."

"Yes, sir." April said.

"You look a bit like you'd like to ask me something. Do you?"

"No, sir. I mean, yeâ€”no. No, sir."

They sat quietly, Commander Reed looking at him intently, waiting.

"Commander Reed? What's the toughest part of Command?"

Reed's head nodded up. "Good Lord! When you get to a point, you really get to a point, don't you, Mister April!

"Now, don't go all shame-faced on me. I'm not trying to make a joke of you."

He drank off most of the glass and shuddered slightly.

"That's a good question. But, I've never had a command. Do you think I know the answer?" Robert panicked for a moment and said, "But, sir, you've been under command. Can't you tell from that?" Reed answered, "I'm not sure I can. I've seen enough mistakes to make me think that I know, but that is probably an illusion."

The old man looked up at the photos again, and smiled sadly before he looked to April once more. "Surely, I think it must be having to use a crew. Use them like a thing. You've heard what I say at graduations. Perhaps that's the toughest. But it's not the saddest thing."

"The saddest?" Robert said.

"Yes," Reed said, "a good commander understands that he'll have to do just that, and that is very, very hard. But the sadder thing is if a commander does that and later realizes he didn't have to. "

"So that's the saddest thing?"

"No. The saddest thing of all is if he didn't have to and never realizes it. Command decisions go spiraling out, triggering other things. A good commander may never know how his decisions will affect the future. A bad one may never realize how his decisions have affected his own present, let alone his future.

"Do you see that photo of the female Commander in Engineering. By the engine?"

"Yes sir."

"That is Margaret Hartley, Rear Admiral Jonathan Archer's daughter."

Robert's head pivoted to study it again. Hartley had died a hero. She had saved the Prometheus, during the Klingon conflict ten years ago. She'd evacuated her people out of engineering and shut down multiple plasma leaks herself. She'd survived the event, but died soon after. It hadn't been widely known who she was related to until after her death.

"She was rejected Academy entry twice," Commander Reed continued. "On her third try she used her mother's family name, so she made it all the way to an interview before some vindictive idiot recognized her. Thank goodness, by that time enough people had seen her. Some of us were aware of the situation and applied some fairness and sense. I'd never seen such a stubborn roomful of hypocrites in my life. When Archer was still alive, most people treated him gingerly, like a classified experimentâ€”try to hide it, try to protect it, don't talk about it. But politics and sentiment changed when he died; Margaret caught some of that flak. So stupid, she wasn't even his biological child."

April gaped. He'd never heard that before. He could hardly believe what he was hearing. People didn't talk much about Jonathan Archer, although his father was still revered.

"Archer's command decisions. All his commands. Look where they have traveled through the years. All the people they affected."

April stammered, "How can a commander get it right?"

Reed looked at him carefully. "There's no one answer to that," he said. "But you, April, and your classmates, have something Jonathan Archer didn't have. Something none of us had on the Enterprise."

Robert April sat considering.

Reed suddenly leaned forward and smiled at him. "We have to go now, Mister April. It's time to graduate another class."


	10. Epilog 2

Reed was tired after the ceremony, much more so than usual, but he had not made any specific arrangements to leave immediately. He got a lot of satisfaction out of seeing the students graduate. When he had been younger he would have never guessed how much satisfaction it would give him. He had never considered himself to be an educator at any level.

He had sometimes thought that spending time with young people had kept him feeling younger, longer. But it could only do so much. Now they always tried to get him to sit still. "May I get you something to drink, Commander?" "Is there anything I can get you Commander?" "If there's someone you wanted to see, I can ask them to come here, Commander." He was sure that when he did show any slight desire to leave, a cadet was likely to suddenly appear at his elbow and offer to take him back home. They were polite young people, more so than he thought he and his peers had been at that age.

He didn't know how to tell them that he couldn't possibly sit in a folding chair for any length of time without pain; it was better to move around. If he had said that, he thought he knew what would happen. "Get a better chair for the Commander. You there, get the instructor's lounge open. Bring out one of those chairs."

So, now he meandered through the reception, still on his own feet. Reed was vaguely aware that he was constantly being tailed by several cadets. Over the years they had started arrange transport for him around San Francisco, but recently, without any discussion with him, they actively trailed him in public. It was almost a game they played. The students had gotten closer and closer, with more elaborate signals to hand him off from one surveillance team to another. As he moved about and spoke to instructors, guests, and graduates, he knew the cadets didn't want to speak to him, not at all. They were trying to prevent his sudden death by tripping over his own feet, choking on a biscuit, falling in the Gents, or some other equally embarrassing way for a ninety-year-old man to die.

It wouldn't necessarily be a bad way to die, he mused, to be walking and chatting with some vivacious young cadets, the sunlight on their shiny hair and clean limbs, and to suddenly fall and strike your head on a step.

An unbidden thought edged into Reed's mind: much better than having some enemy to do it for you, to be forced down with your hands tied behind you, and that crushing blow come from out of nowhere and cave in the back of your skull.

He took a deep breath and shook it off. He really must be tired, getting old and tired to have such grim thoughts come out "topsides." It wasn't how he had died, it was how he had lived. And Reed thought of good things from all those years ago, pleasant talks, and sharing a meal, and a laugh, and an argument.

Reed knew plenty of healthy and active people in their tenth decade, including his own sister, including his friend Travis. However, Reed was not one of them. In his forties, when the pain got to be too debilitating when he exercised, he'd gone through with the time-consuming repairs to remove the scar tissue from his chest cavity, inside and out. He had an artificial kidney now, too; his own remaining one had failed. But it was electro-mechanical, not vat-grown from his own cell structure. Reed still thought it fairly ironic that so many of the fixes human medicine had developed would not work on his own compromised DNA.

The Loquek virus. It lurked within him, still after all these years. Phlox had done as much for the three of them as anyone ever had been able to since they were inflected. It was a permanent link between Archer, and Sato, and himself. And the Insectoid Xindi, of course. Even infected the species' will to reproduce was strong. Reports from the Xindi liaison indicated that some Loquek-Insectoids were still alive, even after all these years.

A lingering stain on humanity, applied by Captain Archer all those years ago. Although Reed's Loquek-tainted hands had assisted. It was Archer's big decision, the decision they had been backed into. But it had worked, and the other Xindi had paused, out of fear, and listened to Archer.

Archer had had that talent; he had made others listen to him. Reed could only curse Archer for his inability to listen back.

He was jarred out of his own thoughts again. Reed felt a bit dazed today. He had just had the valedictorian present her parents to him, when he was aware of a portly, mature Vulcan male approaching him.

"Commander Reed?" He said. And when Reed turned his attention, he spoke again.

"I'm not sure if you will remember me. I met you over fifty years ago when you were a Lieutenant on the Enterprise."

And then, Reed did remember him. Any number of cautionary thoughts sprang into his mind. This Vulcan had been part of a crew Reed would have rather, at this hindsight, have seen marooned, dead decades before in cold, faint reaches of space without any rescue from the Enterprise.

"I amâ€”"

"Kov," Reed finished with him. "You were the engineer on Captain Tavin's ship." The being did not offer in hand in greeting and Reed gladly kept his own behind his back.

Kov said, "Yes, I worked with Commander Tucker when he very kindly helped us with repairs."

Reed found himself saying coldly, "It was his job to follow Captain Archer's orders. What brings you to Earth, Mister Kov?"

"I returned to Vulcan only three years ago, Commander Reed, and I was surprised to hear that your crewmate T'Pol had returned to Vulcan at the end of your mission into the Expanse only to leave again. That she has been living on Earth for many years. I was concerned to hear about her condition, when I learned of it. From what I heard I believe I know the source of her illness. I found myself thinking about the visit I, we, made to your ship. Personal business kept me on Vulcan, but now I've been able to travel. I will be on your planet through your New Year and into the early part of the coming year."

What was Kov after? "If you want to see T'Pol, I'm afraid she doesn't see many visitors. Her condition is very fragile now."

"Commander Reed, I was surprised that she was still alive. It's extremely unusual for someone afflicted with Pa'nar to live this long."

Reed interrupted, "Perhaps she's gotten better care here on Earth than she might have on Vulcan. Humans have found that personal care, with a bit of emotional interest, can often give a patient the will to live."

Kov winced, and the very emotional reaction made Reed reconsider his words. Kov had seemed like a decent sort at the time. Trip had liked him.

Trip had trusted Kov. Poor Trip had trusted too many people, including his friend, Jonathan Archer. Put himself in Archer's hands like a trusting younger brother. Let Archer put him into harm's way - with the Xyrillians, on the desert planet, with the Enolians, the cargo ship with the woman in the status pod - and finally with dubious aliens who promised to tell us about the Xindi weapon.

Reed shook it off. Why was he so distracted today? The Vulcan's next words made Reed disassemble a few of the barriers he'd put up so automatically.

"I didn't want to subject T'Pol to any unwanted visit. I had two reasons to come and see you, Commander. I learned once I arrived that you are one of her few visitors from the crew of the Enterprise. I didn't feel as if anyone else might relate to her what I have to tell you. Tolaris, the Vulcan who - assaulted her - is dead. He's been dead for many, many years."

"Should that make a difference to T'Pol?"

"No. But once we understood his - nature - his violent tendencies - Captain Tavin and the rest of us did the only thing we thought proper. We were unwilling to return to Vulcan space and hand him over to the authorities - for a variety of reasons. So, we tried and sentenced him to an exile. We marooned him on an uninhabited moon. When we returned many years later we found that he had died in the mean time. Apparently of suicide - possibly from fear of the progression of his - disease.

"I didn't want T'Pol to think that we had allowed him to continue his crimes."

Reed was taken aback. "But, you were. You left the Enterprise with him, as if there was nothing wrong."

Kov looked at him closely, and finally said, "We didn't know what he had done. Even when we exiled Tolaris, we had no idea that he had attacked the sub-Commander. We certainly did not know that he was afflicted with Pa'nar at that time. Our Captain was ordered to leave your ship without much explanation -"

"Wait," Reed interrupted, "you didn't know? Captain Archer didn't tell you what he did to her?"

"No," said Kov, earnestly shaking his head. "It was only when I returned to Vulcan that I heard about T'Pol, when she had been afflicted, and I concluded who must have been responsible. I was surprised that your Captain let Tolaris go."

Me, too, Reed thought. He still had the capacity to be angered by Archer, even after all these years, even with the man dead.

Reed suddenly realized, looking over Kov's shoulder, that two of the graduating cadets had come very close, no doubt attracted as his conversation with the Vulcan had become more intense. They suddenly veered off, embarrassed, at a glance from Commander Reed.

Reed motioned for Kov to walk with him, and they moved away from the crowd. He realized that that he had suspected evil complicity or criminal indifference where there was none. They walked silently, Kov waiting for Reed to speak.

Reed finally stopped and stood as straight as he could. He said solemnly to the Vulcan, "Mister Kov, I will tell T'Pol what you've told me, on the first opportunity that I find her alert, and capable. She has never expressed a desire to return to her own people. But, if she does, may I ask if you would be willing to help her, if I'm unfit to do so?"

"Yes," Kov nodded, "Gladly." And Reed was surprised to hear the amount of warmth in his voice.

Reed relaxed. "You said you had two reasons for coming to see me. What was the other?"

Kov glanced, appreciatively, Reed thought with some pride, around at the class room building, the firing range and the grounds.

"I had heard," Kov said, "about the Academy that your Star Fleet had developed. I also heard about this school. I wanted to visit it, and to see humans that he had served with. I don't know if you realize what a great service Commander Tucker did for me. I didn't realize it myself when I was young, and considerably more arrogant."

Reed smiled. "I didn't found anything on my own - there were many with the same goal." He wished that he had been more welcoming to Kov. Reed said, "I was working in weapons research. But when the plans for Star Fleet Academy were being developed, I felt there was a need for a course of study to better prepare the officer corps for the danger they would meet - that we had met - in space. The Enterprise lost too many people, for no good reason. I thought we could do a better job of preparing our people. I wasn't the only one to think that way."

"A laudable goal," said Kov. "And one you seem to have achieved."

"I like to think so, but we can always do better.

"Would you like to visit the memorial?" Reed asked. He very much wanted Kov to see it, now.

"Yes, I would - like that."

They slowly traced the path around the main building and off of the exercise ground. Trees had been planted here, and some of them were mature. They came onto a stone path, with moss and leafy ground covers growing in the shade. When they stepped into the flagstone-paved circle, there were several students there having rather solemn photographs taken. The voices were low and reverent. They came to startled attention and Reed had to give them a nodded recognition. He and Kov moved to one side and the cadets hurriedly finished their visit and left, one of the women leaving a fresh spray of flowers below the statuary in the center, and removing a faded one.

When they were alone Reed took Kov over to the center of the paved area.

The carved stone display was of a work bench, life-sized. Its drawers were forever closed. On the work surface were representations of PADDs of a design from fifty years earlier. There was a stylus, and tools, an inspection light, and measuring and scanning instruments. All in carved stone; all strikingly realistic.

Kov examined the display very intently. He finally turned to Reed and said, "The engineer has left his work. But only for a while. He meant to return."

"Yes," Reed said, "that's right."

Below the bench, to one side, was a stone with an inclined surface. A metal plaque was set there. The inscription read, "This school is dedicated to the memory of Commander Charles Tucker. His was a life of great promise cut short. Lest we forget. 2118â€”2153"

Kov read it and raised his head. Reed followed his glance. Through the leaves of the trees, one could just make out the name over the entrance of the main building, "Tucker-Reed School for Tactical and Security Studies."

"I never thought the name was entirely appropriate," Reed said. "Tactics and Security are the tools that allow the real work to be performed, by people like Tri- Commander Tucker. It's for what he stood for: the drive to take Humanity out into exploration."

"But you worked so hard for this place," Kov said. "Your own engineering work speaks of enormous design and development achievement, and yet, during the same time period, you were advocating that this school be opened as part of your Star Fleet Academy. That you devoted the time and effort to this - practical memorial - speaks to your determination. It seems to me that having your name associated with the school is extremely deserved."

Kov added, "And as I've tried to integrate emotion into my life against the wishes of my people, I also admire the way in which you've mastered negative emotions to produce such a fine program for those who will follow you in your planet's exploration of space."

Reed shot the Vulcan a hard glance. "You may be willing to face your own emotions, Mister Kov, but don't imagine that Human's familiarity with emotions gives us an advantage.

"You heard my speech. I've said that to the class every year. It's as raw and necessary for me to say it now as when Trip's dead body was retrieved. I can never forgive the actions of his killers or the decisions that put him on their ship without appropriate security.

"Giving up 'negative' emotions, forgiveness, has had nothing to do with my work here. Friendship has had everything to do with it. The people I serve, and serve with, are my friends. I flatter myself to count these students among my friends too. My friends, more of them than I dreamed I had, helped put me on a path where I could help start this program, this school. And Trip was my friend, too; he still is. Friendship has kept me sane, and helped me find some contentment."

Reed shook his head, looking up at the words over the building entrance, "This place, this focus, was necessary. But my name detracts from it. It certainly wasn't my damned idea to put it up there." He did not add how it had been done without his approval. It had been well meant, but it was not a gift he would have willingly accepted from the giver.

"But Rear Admiral Archer must have wanted to honor your hard work," said Kov, and as he saw Reed look away toward the ground, he haltingly continued, "That is what I read."

The first class commencement had been the last time Reed had spoken to Archer, and the first time he had spoken to him since the official name of the school had been announced. Archer had never come to another commencement. And despite the effort he had put into the formation of the Tactical School, supporting Reed, bulling his way through in that overpowering, hectoring manner he had had, people now had almost succeeded in forgetting that the Tucker-Reed Tactical and Security School would possibly have never gotten its start without Jonathan Archer's support and arm-twisting and emotional blackmail.

Archer. Star Fleet's corpse at the wedding. Back then you couldn't have avoided him if you tried, and yet no one had wanted to be the first to point out that he was right there standing by the punchbowl. They had all been a bit ashamed of Archer, and guilty. They, all of Earth, all of Starfleet, had used Archer, sent him out with not much more than his own trembling moral compass, and begged him to save them all. The hysteria after the Xindi attack had allowed no reflection, and Earth's inability to protect itself from a concerted space borne attack had made that hysteria realistic.

But Archer had done exactly what Earth had wanted.

I used him, too, Reed thought. On that first commencement, nearly fifty years before, Reed had been incapable of continuing to hide that repudiation of his former Captain's methods. It had been cruel to Archer, but it had also been the truth.

Kov, of course, did not realize how good Humans could be at denial and rationalization. Burying emotion to achieve an end was not a uniquely Vulcan skill.

Reed suddenly realized that they had left the memorial. Kov was ushering him away. He had lost his concentration again, for a moment. He heard the voice of a cadet ahead of them on the path, "Commander Reed is showing a guest the memorial."

They came into the light and Reed saw that a few cadets had blocked the path so that he and Kov were allowed those moments without intrusion. There were several cadets and their families, all waiting to pay their respects at the memorial. Reed saw bright young faces, open, and serious, purposeful.

Kov was concerned for the elderly man at his side. He had stupidly forgotten on his journey to Earth how there would be so few left who had known Commander Tucker in life. Humans aged so quickly. It didn't seem logical that some of them had to cram so much into such a short span of time. No that was, wrong. It didn't seem "fair." That was the right word.

Reed said something, and Kov strained to hear it. "Look at them all," Reed said, looking with dim eyes at the graduates. "I'm very proud of them. I wish Trip could have seen them. I think we did a good job. They won't see the mistakes we saw." The sun was low and very bright, shining right into their faces. Reed squinted his eyes against it and his grimace was more like a smile.

And suddenly Reed's legs buckled under him. He folded as neatly as a collapse at a demolition site. Several in the families shouted out. A cadet darted forward, getting strong arms under the Commander before his head and shoulders hit the ground. Kov and the cadet laid Reed out flat. Someone handed a jacket that was folded and put under his head. COMs were out, multiple calls to emergency services. One of the Academy instructors, in science blue uniform, knelt and examined the fallen man.

"He's had a stroke," said the doctor, and pulled out a hypo. She hesitated for a moment, looking into Reed's confused expression, before injecting him. She then loosened the collar and tie of the uniform. The cadet kneeling by Reed's side across from Kov was a young man of average height, and sandy-colored hair, and Kov saw Reed fix his eyes on him. The cadet said, "The Commander's saying something." They bent closer. The humans could make out nothing.

The doctor saw a medical tag under Reed's shirt and pulled it out, giving it a cursory glance. In the distance there was a siren, but the doctor suddenly stiffened to attention. She ran the scan again, put one hand against the Commander's neck, and then said, "That's all." She reached out to close the dead man's eyes.

The cadet gasped and made to start resuscitation. The ambulance was nearly there. But the doctor put out a restraining hand. "No," she said, "there's a 'No Resuscitation' request on the tag."

They all stood back for the medical technicians and the doctor identified herself and explained the situation. Kov watched the play of emotion of the faces of the Humans while the Commander's body was put onto a stretcher. The doctor was stoic, calm, but she twisted one hand against the other. The cadets did not hide their emotions, although they might have thought they were. Shocked, pale faces; ones that were trembling with anger; a few red with excitement, of heightened feeling; more than one who sobbed out loud.

The blond cadet who stood near Kov suddenly spoke out as the medical technicians lifted the stretcher. The young man snapped upright, and with a voice cracking into a high pitch, he sang out, "Attention!" All the cadets stood very straight.

When the ambulance had gone, Kov solemnly turned and started to walk back in the direction of his lodgings. How sad, he thought, how these Humans had such a short life, and how stoic, to determine not to allow every effort to cling to every possible moment, no matter how reduced.

Kov heard steps in the grass behind him. He turned, and a young man, the cadet who had helped Commander Reed when he had collapsed, was running toward him.

"Wait," the youth cried. "Please, sir." He hesitated, and asked, "What did he say? What did Commander Reed say?"

Kov watched the straining, taut figure. On Vulcan he would have been not more than a child. As a human, he had already used up a sixth of his lifespan.

"Did you know the Commander, Cadet..?" Kov asked.

"Why, sir! We all knew Commander Reed!" he said. His face showed a pained confusion after his outburst. "And, it's April, sir."

Kov said softly, "Cadet April, Commander Reed was remembering someone."

The April blinked several times. He said, "I hope the Commander wasn't - in pain, or out of his head."

It took Kov a moment to realize the meaning of the youth's words.

"Don't think that. I do not believe it is true."

Kov had seen it, and heard the words too low for living Human ears.

The Commander had looked up into worried blue eyes. And Reed had murmured, "It's all right, Trip. I really am fine."


End file.
